


Fire & Ice

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc and Tom have baggage. Enough to fill a whole suite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (Ice)

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Slayer-verse, chronologically after [Slayer – Love Hurts (And Then The Mop Goes Into The Dragon)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/150014) and [Not My Type](http://archiveofourown.org/works/150120).
> 
> ~

Sometime in the dead of night, Marc was woken up by the absence of another body in the bed. By itself, that was hardly cause for alarm. He slept alone most nights of the week.

But it was the weekend, or at least the tail end of it, and weekends were different.

The other side of the bed was still messed up; his searching fingers met with tangled sheets and pillows shoved aside. It was a Tom night, and there was no Tom.

That, too, was not entirely unusual. The boy kept ridiculously uncivilised hours. Marc rolled over on his stomach to squint at the radio clock before remembering it was broken. Sighing, he groped for his mobile instead. It was 3:40 a.m. but he only spared a moment of exasperation before the date caught his eye. The 4th of March. He stared at it bemusedly for a minute, an odd, uncomfortable tightness in his chest: something like excitement, or dread.

The door to the sitting room was closed, with only a thin sliver of light shining through at the bottom. Marc rolled out of bed and promptly stubbed his toe on the space heater. Biting down a curse, he grabbed his nightrobe and wrapped himself in it in the dark. He’d upgraded to a suite about a month ago so he’d have more room – alright, he amended, so _they’d_ have more room – and he still wasn’t used to the new place. The suite seemed to feel the same way about him, judging from the way random things kept tripping him up or breaking on him at the most inopportune of times. Just yesterday the water had turned freezing cold right in the middle of a shower, sending them both yelping and shivering to the bedroom. Marc smiled at the memory; ill-timed as the boiler’s screw-up had been, they had managed to find other ways to get warm.

He switched on the reading light to avoid injuring himself further by stumbling about in the dark. The bedroom was smallish, and much less tidy than he’d like. He suddenly missed Hamburg with a fierce pang that surprised him. He missed his usual running route along the Elbe, missed catching up with René over coffee, missed his favourite restaurants and the winds off the North Sea. Most of all, he missed the familiar comforts of his own apartment, the creative chaos of his living room; his clock that wasn’t broken, his own sheets and his kitchen where he could cook and entertain at the same time, filling his walls with the friendly chatter of friends and the smells of good food.

That was Hamburg, though; that was home, and this was on the road, even though “on the road” had been the same Stuttgart hotel for the last five months, two before the _Slayer_ premiere and three after. This was one of the in-between places that he’d grown used to over the course of his career; but for all the comforts he surrounded himself with, it was also limbo, and after a certain amount of time he always found himself missing home.

This time, though, there were complications even with something as simple as homesickness. The primary one was right here, hunched over his laptop on the couch, frowning at the screen while his fingers tapped on the keyboard so fast they seemed to blur.

He hadn’t noticed Marc opening the connecting door. Marc leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a bit, feeling amused and exasperated and just a little bit afraid. Tom sprawled on the couch in the unselfconscious way of someone who had entirely forgotten the world around him. He’d wrapped himself in a thin blanket but the heat was on high and the blanket had slipped off his shoulders or been pushed down. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, his laptop perched on top of his crossed legs. His knees poked up on either side, knobby and winter-pale. After three days without a shave, his cheeks were covered in dark blond fuzz. His hair was a catastrophe, bed-mussed and hanging so low into his eyes that Marc had no idea how he could even see his screen.

With his shoulders hunched and his teeth sunk into his lower lip in deep concentration, Tom Reichenbach looked like a kid who had snuck out of bed late at night to play video games, and Marc tried hard to disperse the notion, which he knew wasn’t accurate or fair. But it fit too well into the picture of his unvoiced dilemma: His life in Hamburg – the life he’d been missing just two minutes ago – and this limbo arrangement in Stuttgart were two very different things, and any attempt to merge them in his head invariably left him stumped. Hamburg was no farther from Essen than Stuttgart; on the contrary, the logistics should be easier rather than more complicated. Yet whenever he cautiously tried to integrate Tom into his mental image of his home, the pieces wouldn’t fit. The lonely morning runner didn’t magically morph into two. Another person’s things didn’t casually superimpose themselves on his apartment. His friends’ imagined faces at Marc’s introduction of his cheery-faced, clumsy, very young computer geek didn’t automatically settle into happy congratulatory expressions.

No matter how hard he tried, the picture made no more sense to him than Tom’s endless pages of game coding. Hamburg was far from Tom’s friends, from his sister, from Ben, his co-developer. He wouldn’t slot into place, and that was quite apart from the fact that Marc had no idea whether Tom would even consider something so drastic as a move.

He could have asked, of course, but that was out of the question, because he had no contingency plan if the answer was no, and wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to be yes. Not asking meant limbo could continue, at least for a little while; a harmless arrangement, just a bit of fun. He wasn’t usually one for dragging things out but he had recently learned, too harshly, what happened when you tried to force an outcome.

Tom looked up suddenly, and his eyes went from far away to very much here in less than a heartbeat. Smiling, he took off his headphones. “Hey! How long have you been up?”

“Long enough, night owl.”

Unabashed, Tom raised his brows. “So you were just standing there perving?”

Marc snickered. “You should’ve considered the perv factor before you started following a dirty old man to his hotel room.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “In case it’s slipped your decrepit mid-thirties brain, old man, you were the one who _offered_ his hotel room.”

“Mhm. And you didn’t exactly need persuasion. In fact, if I recall correctly, your exact words were _I thought you’d never ask._ ”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Lech.”

“Brat.”

Marc strolled over to stand at the head of the couch. “Are you nearly done with that?” he asked with a side glance at the laptop. Sometimes he felt like he was constantly battling the dratted thing for Tom’s time and attention, but then he supposed Tom must feel the same way about him and his show at times. It was difficult to arrange priorities when your relationship pretty much took place exclusively on weekends and neither of you worked jobs that even had weekends off.

“Yeah, I’d just finished.” Tom put the computer on standby with a quick click of buttons, and closed the screen. Watching the old t-shirt slip off his shoulder a bit, Marc realised that he’d just called it a _relationship_ in his head, and sighed resignedly.

Tom looked up when he heard it. “Something wrong?” His concern was swift and genuine; Marc forced a smile, secretly cursing himself for a maudlin fool.

“Do you know what date it is?”

“Uhm…” Tom snuck an automatic glance at his computer, but of course it was closed now. When he glanced up again, he looked so comically anxious that Marc had to grin.

“Sunday? March the… second? Shit, it’s not your birthday, is it?” His expression turned to genuine dismay, and Marc quickly shook his head.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s nothing really. I just…” He wished he hadn’t mentioned anything now, but with Tom looking at him expectantly, there was nothing for it but to continue.

He shrugged. “I was just checking the time before I came out here. It’s March the fourth.”

Tom looked blank.

Feeling increasingly silly, Marc reached out to pull him to his feet, sparing a moment to appreciate the sight of those long legs untangling from the blanket. Tom smelled of coffee and – faintly – of smoke: night owl smells, to go with his slightly bloodshot eyes and perpetually messy hair. Marc breathed deep and thought that these smells, these eyes, this crazy hair ought not to be nearly so appealing. He grinned, leaned close into Tom’s tangled locks and murmured, “Which means it’s been exactly three months since my premiere.”

 _Since my premiere_ sounded much better, he decided, than _since you kissed me_. Definitely much better than _since we started doing this_ , because that might mean he’d have to give _this_ a name, and he wasn’t ready for that, just as he wasn’t ready to ask this lovely, bewildering klutz what _this_ meant to _him_. He’d meant to, god knew he had; had drawn up phrases in his head, imagined himself bold and seductive, smiling winningly as he asked, _Is this a thing, then?_

He would have, not too long ago. But little as he might like it, the past summer and the disaster with Roman – and damn, why did disaster have to feel so good, even in memory? – had left him more brittle than he cared for, and a lot more cautious. It had been a while, before Roman, since he’d gambled his heart away so utterly, and losing had been harder than he’d expected. The harsh truth was he simply wasn’t up for it again, not so soon. The harsh truth was the timing couldn’t be worse, and to think of it as just having fun was honestly all he’d been able to handle, even though that drove him nuts too.

The harsh truth was he was screwed either way.

Tom’s blue eyes widened as the relevance of the date sank in; then he grinned, entirely oblivious of Marc’s gloomy thoughts, and slipped his hands inside Marc’s robe. They were very warm, as was the rest of him.

“Wow, three months? Already?” He pushed his nose against Marc’s neck, nuzzling the sensitive spot under his ear. “Suppose we ought to do something to celebrate.” His voice had dropped to a low murmur, dark and promising, and Marc’s breath hitched when Tom playfully sank his teeth into his neck. The boy _had_ rather taken to this like a fish to water.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, slightly breathlessly, and frowned when he felt Tom’s mouth pull into a grin. Something would have to be done about that cockiness.

“I don’t know. A re-enactment might be appropriate, don’t you think?”

Marc caught the wandering hands and pulled them up between them. Tom was tall, though not quite as tall as he; those amazing blue eyes grinned up at him from no more than an inch’s height difference.

“Hm. I’m pretty sure you can only teach a guy how to do a blowjob once,” Marc said silkily, looking for the tell-tale blush. It came, but so did an unselfconscious burst of laughter. Tom seemed to have no issue with his previous lack of experience with men; it was one of the things Marc had to admit he liked so much about him. Despite his utter lack of grace, there was an easy comfort in most things he did, and there were few things Marc appreciated as much as people who were frank about what they wanted. It was one of the reasons he was less than pleased with his own reticence in that department lately.

Tom was leaning in again, flushed with mischief, and brushed his lips teasingly against Marc’s. “True, but the guy might demonstrate how much better he’s gotten at it since then,” he said in that same husky voice that never failed to get a reaction from Marc. It didn’t now, either, and with his robe undone, there was no way to hide it. Tom smiled when he noticed: a slow, wide grin that somehow managed to be both smug and sweet. He pushed his hips against Marc’s, slipped a knee between his thighs. Marc felt his breath catch at the sudden friction. Framing Tom’s fuzzy cheeks with his hands, he kissed him deeply, chasing the faint taste of smoke. Tom responded with enthusiasm, and when he eventually pulled away to sink to his knees, Marc let him, all gloomy thoughts dispersed for the moment by the warmth of Tom’s skin and the look of desire darkening his eyes. He knelt with the slight clumsiness that never quite left his motions, steadying himself with his hands on Marc’s hips; but there was nothing awkward about the heat of his mouth or the eagerness of his lips and tongue, and Marc let his head sink back and stopped thinking altogether.

Morning came too soon. Monday mornings always did. Once again, Tom was up before him, busy making coffee and shoving his things into a duffel bag. He’d started to leave some stuff at the hotel, just essentials like a spare toothbrush and a few clothes, but whenever he departed, these things looked depressingly forgotten rather than intentionally left behind.

It was only seven; Tom liked to drive early, to avoid rush hour and to arrive in Essen before noon. It wasn’t like he needed to follow office hours, but Ben and their main workspace were in Essen, as was the ice rink and the skaters who helped make the game a reality. The heater in the bedroom was clearly broken again, and it was cold. His robe was nowhere to be found, and he was sore and sticky, not to mention tired. God, but Monday mornings were a drag. He ought to be at the theatre in an hour or Dominique would start pestering him on the phone, so he had better take a shower – a cold one probably, curse his luck and this shit hotel – and settle into the workday. But somehow all he could do was watch Tom pack and offer semi-serious appalled comments at the way he shoved clothes into his bag unfolded.

Tom rolled his eyes at him as he packed up the laptop. “Well, I don’t have anyone to impress with the perfect foldedness of my perfectly ironed clothes, Mr. Neat Freak.”

He passed Marc on his way into the bedroom to check if he’d forgotten anything, and Marc couldn’t help himself; he stopped him with a hand around his wrist and pulled him in, flipping him against the wall in one quick, neat turn, and pressed close. Tom’s surprised “whoof!” was swallowed in a kiss, a much harsher one than intended. He knew it was pathetic, this undertone of obsession, but he suddenly hated this: hated the stolen weekends and the hurried goodbyes, the perfectly hopeless inconvenience of all this. He hated limbo as much as he was incapable of changing it, and most of all he hated that he’d become that sort of person; that he couldn’t ask, for fear of whatever consequence the answer might demand of him.

Tom let him have his mouth willingly enough, his free arm coming around Marc’s neck; but when Marc pulled away, Tom frowned at him.

“You okay?”

He forced a grin. “Sure.” He brushed back Tom’s hair, as useless a gesture as ever. He didn’t do it to tidy it, not really; he just enjoyed the texture of it against his skin, both coarse and silky. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

It was a freezing morning. A thin sheet of ice slicked the streets, and the gravel trucks hadn’t got round to covering it yet. Tom had to spend a few minutes scraping rime off his windows and warming the engine. Wrapped in his thick black coat, Marc stood watching with his arms crossed, restless and unhappy. Tom seemed to glow this morning, as if he couldn’t feel the cold. Marc wouldn’t have been surprised if the heat wafting off him was enough to melt the ice right off the street.

When Tom came bouncing back to him for his goodbye, Marc forced a smile onto his frozen face. “Drive carefully,” he said, and Tom nodded, grabbing his lapels as he leaned in to kiss him. His skin was chilly but it didn’t run deep. Marc could feel warmth coursing through him even through layers of winter clothing.

Tom stepped back eventually but didn’t walk away. He wasn’t smiling now.

“Three months, huh?” He said it lightly, but he had a face that hid nothing; there was a purpose to the words, some lead-up happening here, and Marc was disturbed at his heartbeat doubling almost immediately. So this was it. Granted, he’d have preferred to have a talk about it, difficult as that might be, but perhaps it was easier to part this way: on an icy road, after a night that might as well have been goodbye as a celebration.

“Three months.” He was surprised at how calm he sounded, but at the same time almost relieved. He refused to think of Tom’s toothbrush still upstairs, the sheets that would still smell of him, of them together.

He waited.

Tom cleared his throat, swallowed visibly. “So… is this a thing, then?”

He looked nervous. Anxious, even. But his eyes were fixed on Marc’s face, and the half-smile that curled into his whiskers was cautiously hopeful.

Marc felt something melt inside him at the sight; some icy lump of apprehension that he’d been carrying around for… well, for three months, he supposed. Inside it was a harder core that was made up of all sorts of other lumps, which were by no means pleasant either, but at the moment he couldn’t even focus on them. All he knew was that he’d heard what he’d heard, and it was enough to make him remember that he wasn’t the only one with baggage, not the only one with fears.

Tom was still looking at him, expectant and sincere. Right. His turn. He felt a smile take over his own face, defying the morning’s chill and his own lingering doubts.

“I think so, yeah,” he replied, and Tom’s answering grin made him forget there was such a thing as cold in the world.

“Good,” was all he said, but that would do, for now.


	2. Don't Be A Douche, And Other Helpful Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party is planned, and Ingo fails at life.

The birthday party was Ingo's idea, which usually spelled disaster. Well acquainted with this fact, the birthday girl was less than thrilled.

"Really, Ingo. I don't like to make a big deal of it," Lena insisted, skilfully blocking a goal at the football table. They'd just had their bimonthly flatshare and friends' dinner; Vanessa and Deniz were doing the dishes while Roman and Annette squabbled over the TV remote on the couch. Tom was losing at table football to Lena, badly, while Ingo watched and offered commentary on Lena's tactics, Tom's utter lack of hand-eye coordination, and the undeniable merits of having boobs as part of your distraction strategy. At her refusal, he made a disapproving clucking noise.

"Come on, Lenchen! How many times are you going to turn twenty-nine?"

"Once every year, for the rest of my life," Lena declared firmly. "I've heard more than enough horror stories about 30th birthday parties, some of them from very close friends."

"Don't even," Roman said darkly from the couch. In the kitchen, Deniz froze briefly, up to his elbows in soap suds. Ingo rolled his eyes.

"Well, none of us were going to buy you a flat if that's what you were worried about," he said. "Although to be honest, I never did suss out what was so awful about that. Hey, Deniz, you know next time you two break up, I am totally open to a change of lifestyle if I can move into those sweet digs of yours, yeah?"

Deniz's face had darkened, Tom saw; Vanessa looked slightly worried, and Annette shot her husband a warning glare. "Ingo."

"What?" Ingo complained, all outraged innocence. "It's just a party! Why's everyone so anti-birthdays these days?"

"Because they are vile and remind you how old you never wanted to be," Roman stated crossly from the couch.

"Because you might end up with a goth skull necklace instead of two tickets to that thing you love," Vanessa called out across the room, earning herself a glare and an elbow in the rib from Deniz.

Ingo waggled his brows at them both. "Fair enough, but really, that only teaches us not to have a birthday party and/or birthday gift supplied by people called Öztürk."

"Oy!"

"Shut up, Deniz, you are guilty until proven otherwise. Zadek parties, however, have a long-standing tradition of being hosted by-"

"-insensitive twats who've seen funnier days?" suggested Roman silkily. He got up and strode over to the sink where Deniz was drying his hands, red in the face and clearly not pleased. Roman wrapped an arm around his middle and poked him in the nose, then stood on his tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. Even across the room, Tom saw Deniz relax slightly; he smiled and tilted his head to meet Roman's lips for a quick kiss.

Absentmindedly, Tom wondered if his tendency to pay more attention to how these two acted around each other these days had more to do with the fact that they were currently the only gay friends – and ergo, point of reference – he had, or that sometimes, against his will, his imagination put Marc in Deniz's place and measured himself against the things that Roman would say or do. No matter the angle, it was an intimidating standard to compare to.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Lena promptly sank another ball in Tom's goal and whooped. "And that concludes a ridiculously easy win for Bergmann! Reichenbach has been wiped flat off the field. Rematch, or do you concede you are an utter loser?"

Tom grinned at her, raising his hands in defeat. "Utter loser it is."

"Good choice," Lena beamed, then turned to her brother-in-law. "Look, Ingo, I just don't have a good track record with birthday celebrations, okay? I mean, what's been my best birthday to date? The one I spent in an airport in Indonesia on the run from my psycho ex? The one on anti-depressants a week after I'd given birth in a dirty forest cabin? Or maybe last year, when none of you guys would talk to me because you hated my husband so much and the only one who said a kind word to me all day was Frau Scholz?"

There was an awkward silence, but Ingo Zadek was not so easily deterred. "Okay, sucky birthdays all, granted! But! What was missing from all of them? A patented Very Awesome Ingo Zadek Flatshare Birthday Bash, that's what!"

Annette, comfortably ensconced on the couch with her hard-earned remote, piped up, "It might not be the worst idea, Lena. We could call Katja, see if she can get the time off from Halle!"

Lena looked dubious. "Maybe…"

The Bergmann-Zadeks launched into an animated discussion about possible party themes and guest lists, while Deniz and Roman had sat down on the bottom steps of the spiral stair and were talking with their heads close together, obviously off in a world of their own. Vanessa was still drying dishes, offering the occasional suggestion for the increasingly less hypothetical party. Momentarily left to his own devices, Tom claimed the now-abandoned couch and simply listened.

Occasionally, he still felt like an outsider here. There was so much history between them all, so many shifting relationship configurations that he thought he couldn't keep it all straight even if some kind soul were to draw him a flowchart. He'd always made friends easily enough, and Essen was no exception, but there were times when he couldn't help feeling like a cuckoo's egg. It was one thing to adopt your girlfriend's circle of friends, if you legitimately liked them. It was another one to seamlessly take them over once said girlfriend had up and left town; and it went a step beyond either to move in with them. The room he lived in used to be Katja's; _talk about bizarre post-break-up arrangements_ , he thought.

If not for his creative meeting with Ben earlier in the week – a meeting that had proved to be fruitless and very much non-creative, anyway, since they still couldn't agree on the background colours of the game and were wildly divided on the virtual skaters' costumes – he could be in Stuttgart right now. The crew and cast would be in the cafeteria, bantering loudly; people from all over the world, with none of the odd undercurrents that plagued his flatshare. Later on he could be at some cosy little restaurant with Marc, eating Indian or Japanese while they exchanged news about each other's weeks. And later still…

He squirmed a little on the sofa, sternly reminding his body that certain memories were _not_ welcome right now. It was ridiculous, though; all it took was a stray thought of Marc's knowing smirk, of his large but elegant hands skimming along his ribs, and his skin shivered in response, warming to a remembered touch. He wasn't sure whether this heightened responsiveness was a gay thing, part of the relative novelty factor, or simply a Marc thing. He suspected the latter, but he didn't particularly care to define it. All he knew was that it was lovely, distracting, and at times like now, extremely frustrating.

His mobile beeped, as if in answer to his wistful musings. He scrambled for it, grateful for the excuse to rearrange his legs.

"Miss you, you slob," the small display read. "Taking weekend OFF, come hell/high water. Fancy minibreak? Maybe Prague?"

He didn't realise he was grinning foolishly until Vanessa nudged him, leaning over the back of the couch.

"Good news?" She was smiling at him with friendly interest. Tom beamed back.

"Yes. No!" He sat up straight, remembering where he was. His exclamation had drawn his friends' attention; inquisitive faces turned his way.

Tom grinned at them sheepishly. "Right, party. This weekend, is it?"

Ingo puffed out his chest. "Most coveted party in all of Essen! Punch, beer, very bloody steaks, all for our fabulous Kleenchen here. Maybe a surprise appearance from Mr. Sausage!"

Everyone groaned. Ingo beamed and ignored them. "Okay, guest list, short and painless! Bergmann sisters cubed, if our Katinka can be moved to move her arse from Halle! The Princesses Floriana and Romana Wild! Aunts Marianne and Denise, staunch representatives of the Ottoman Empire! VANESSA IST BESSER! Ben Steinkamp AND his enormously oversized personal sausage! Madame Isabelle von und zu Steinkamp-Reichenbach, if she will deign to dine with the lowly! Her stalwart brother Sir Thomas, Keulchen, Frau Scholz, Brigitte-Constanze, Maximilian Santiago de Chili Sausage von Altenburg His Exalted Greasiness _if he absolutely must_ , and…"

Gasping for breath, Ingo looked around. "…I think that's all?"

Tom spoke into what turned out to be a deafening silence.

"I thought I might bring Marc, if that's okay."

All chatter ceased immediately; all heads turned to him. The girls sported varying expressions of worried concern, while Ingo's face was wrinkled into a grimace. Deniz's face was perfectly blank; Roman's, utterly appalled.

Tom frowned at them. "What? You guys knew I was seeing him. I can ask him to a party at my place, right? I do live here too, you know," he added pointedly.

Roman cleared his throat as he rose from the step he'd been sitting on. "Tom…"

"Yeah, I know. Awkward." Tom straightened his shoulders and met Roman's gaze squarely. He'd been apprehending a moment like this. In fact, he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. "But no more awkward than inviting Katja, or Ben, or my sister, or anyone else who's dated people in this flatshare."

Roman looked so unhappy Tom almost took pity on him, but he stood his ground – or, more accurately, sat his ground, back pressed firmly into the reassuring solidity of the leather couch. This was important.

"I think he'll manage to see you without causing a scene, if that's what you're worried about," he added, unable to quite suppress the note of pique. At moments like these he was all too aware of how damn _recent_ he was with any of them, even Marc; especially Marc. Three months was nothing. Roman and Marc went back more than ten _years_. Tom tried to tell himself that there was no help for that, no reason to feel inadequate. It almost worked.

Roman's gaze flickered to Ingo; Tom couldn't figure out the nuances of his expression, other than that it was desperately uncomfortable.

"It's not that. Last time Marc was here…"

"Marc the shark," Ingo interrupted, making a comically exaggerated _it smells in here_ face. "I think we have a rule against him. Don't we have a rule against him? Nettchen?"

Annette looked almost as uneasy as Roman. "Well, it's different now…"

Tom didn't really remember the last time Marc had been here, at the hockey team's party. Timing had neatly sheared them off from any potential interaction; he'd arrived in Essen the week before, and Marc had left the day after. That night, Tom had spent most of the time with Katja in her room, laughing together as they got unbelievably drunk off some silly peach-flavoured wine she had. He had joined the others briefly, later; had even foggily noticed that a couple of guys were standing awkwardly in a corner and left early. By then, though, he'd been so drunk that everything blurred. He vaguely remembered drinking to eternal friendship with at least five of the hockey guys, none of whose faces or names he could recall later.

He'd been amused, and slightly chagrined, when Marc later admitted that he hadn't noticed him at all that night. He'd thought they'd met in Stuttgart for the first time. Technically it was true, Tom supposed. That party might as well have been in another world. It would be different this time. Shifting configurations again; perhaps he was adopting the Essen gang's patterns after all, Tom thought wryly.

Ingo was still going strong.

"No man-eaters? No friend-cheaters? No Hamburgian fishburgers?" He started looking around exaggeratedly. "I'm sure we have a code here somewhere. No smarmy, prowly, snooty, boyfriend-stealing pimp daddies? Something like that?"

The support of the couch against Tom's back abruptly disappeared when he shot to his feet.

"He's nothing like that!" he said angrily.

Almost simultaneously, Roman snarled, "If we had a _no cheaters_ rule, Ingo Zadek, this flat would be deserted."

For a few seconds, they all talked over each other, arguments flying back and forth. Annette and Vanessa were trying to re-establish order, waving their arms around; Roman had put a hand on Tom's arm, saying something that got swallowed in the general din, and Lena was loudly stating that this proved her point and birthdays were evil.

Ingo sighed heavily, in response to something Annette murmured in his ear.

"I suppose," he said grudgingly. "If he brings his own food. And maybe a screen so I don't have to-"

"Ingo." Deniz's voice was quiet but firm, cutting off Ingo's tirade effectively. "Don't be a douche."

Tom stared at him, almost shocked out of his annoyance. Grateful as he was for the back-up, it came from the last person he'd have expected it from. Deniz wasn't looking at him, though. He'd unfolded his long, lean body from the stairs and stood behind Roman, facing Ingo over his boyfriend's head. His hands settled lightly on Roman's shoulders.

Ingo howled like a wounded animal.

"Et tu, Brute? Of all people? Seriously, dude? After everything that-"

" _Seriously, dude_ ," Deniz echoed, his voice and eyes gone suddenly steely, "can it."

Amazingly, Ingo did, although he looked as mutinous as a thwarted toddler. Deniz stood facing him down for a few seconds longer, before looking briefly at Tom.

"Flatshare and friends, right?" he said, to no one in particular. "If Tom wants to bring his boyfriend, he has every right to."

No one contradicted him. Tom felt slightly unreal, and very much wished he was still sitting down. _Boyfriend._ Was that what they were, Marc and he? It seemed so deceptively harmless a word. So _cute_ yet heavy with meaning. Deniz and Roman were boyfriends; they'd earned the label over years of struggle and bliss. Tom had seen how they communicated with a brief touch of fingers or a tilt of the head. A smile passing between them while others talked over their heads carried a whole different conversation of its own, one that nobody but them was privy to. They lived together. They passed items without needing to look where the other one's hand was. They had scars and rifts and private jokes. History. It all came back to that.

He became aware that everyone was looking at him now. Right. _Suppose the decent thing would be to let them off the hook_ , he thought. _Tell them it's okay, some other time._  
 _  
_He didn't feel like doing the decent thing, though. If he put it off today, he might do it again next time, and the next, and the next. And also… _boyfriend_. Boyfriends didn't meet in some hotel in a distant city every weekend like they had something to hide. Boyfriends went to parties together. Boyfriends met the gang.

"Yeah," he said, looking at them calmly. "I'd like that."

Lena settled the matter by clearing her throat in a manner that surely shouldn't be half so threatening, coming from someone her size.

"Well, it's my birthday, so my decision, right?" she said lightly. "By all means, bring him, Tom. This place needs a few people who didn't get stuck on Alexander's developmental level." She gave Ingo a narrow-eyed stare when he opened his mouth. "Zip it, Zadek. You wanted a party, so you're damn well getting one. _My_ party."

***

As usual, he went to Isabelle first.

It was a long-standing habit. He'd watched his sister start to date at eleven with the careless confidence of someone who already knew all the rules to a secret game. To Tom, thirteen at the time, the rules were a mystery, and watching Isabelle sashay easily from one boyfriend to the next, he became increasingly aware that he wasn't one of the select circle of the initiated. It took a long time for him to realise that there was no such select circle; that everyone, including his sister, was just making it up as they went along. By then, he'd had to pick up her broken pieces time and time again and had a few painful lessons under his own belt as well; first and foremost, that having lots of money made dating both easier and at the same time infuriatingly hard.

Isabelle used to shake her head at his misgivings about girls who might date him just because he was rich.

"So?" she'd say. "You think guys don't do that to me? Take advantage. Get your money's worth! Do I really have to explain everything to you?"

But it was her who seemed to be getting the rough end of the deal more often than not, and over time coming to ask her for advice had become something of a guise for checking if she was alright. She'd tell him readily, or he could tease it out of her; but she would never come to him first. The guise was necessary.

She was wearing running clothes and looked put out when she opened the door. "Tom, I really don't have time for…"

"Oh come on, it won't take long! I need a woman's touch here." Ignoring her protests, he shouldered into the penthouse with his laptop already half open, pulling up images of the virtual skaters' dresses.

"I just need one quick opinion. Ben's been completely useless with it. Here – this one, do you think, or with the sequins? And should we have them all in the same set of colour options, or customise?"

She gave the screen an impatient look. "This, this, and this one. This skirt is too long, maybe a slit or something. She couldn't move her arms properly in those sleeves, you need something to attach them at the wrists. And yes, custom colours. Duh. Girls like to be special." She grinned at him suddenly. "Don't tell me you haven't developed an eye for glitzy dresses yet."

Tom glowered at her. "What, because of my newfound gay?"

She made a face. "No, doofus, because of all the time you spend helping out on _Slayer_. You don't come to my performances half as often." The note of accusation was unmistakable.

"Not true. I came to the Germans." Her silver medal hung over that godawful sideboard, shimmering softly in the afternoon sun. She'd been magnificent; but then she always was.

"Yes, and you flew off immediately afterwards, so you'd get at least one day with your lover." She waved his protestations aside. "It's fine. Love must be grand. How _is_ Monsieur Hagendorf?"

He grinned, but cautiously. "He's fine. Things are going pretty well, I think."

And he thought they were, but it was hard to tell with Marc. Sometimes Tom thought he was getting good at being an entity in the life of Marc Hagendorf; other times, he wondered if he was completely delusional. The past few weeks, Marc had been in a splendid mood, dazzling with charm, pleased with the success of the show, and obviously happy to have Tom visiting. Last weekend, his mood had been preoccupied and gloomy, cool to the point of reservedness. By contrast, he'd been entirely unrestrained in bed, with an edge of rough possessiveness to his every touch that still had Tom weak in the knees thinking about it. He'd screamed, that last night, and then begged. Marc had laughed softly, a dark, rich sound like some great cat's purr. There were nights, during the long, Marc-less stretches between weekends, that Tom had made himself come just by thinking of that laugh when he touched himself.

But that was one facet, one night. After three months, Marc was slightly less of a mystery than he'd been when Tom first met him, but at times it seemed as if for every layer that was peeled back, a new one immediately materialised somewhere further inside, carefully warding against intrusion. Tom wondered if he'd ever get past all the barriers.

Marc had seemed pleased when Tom had finally got up the nerve to ask about the state of things between them, though. Tom could still hear the smile in his voice when he'd agreed that yes, they were… well, whatever they'd agreed on they were. He'd been too nervous and then too giddy to talk terminology, and every time the definitions came up, they annoyed him slightly. _Boyfriends_ still seemed too casual and too committed at once. _Dating_ sounded silly to him, _an item_ even more so. There didn't seem to be a handy one-word definition for _looking a little more forward to seeing Marc Hagendorf each week, and wondering a little less whether this is a wise move each week, because it's obviously not but somehow that doesn't seem to matter.  
_  
He looked up to find his sister watching him with a strange expression stuck somewhere between appalled, amused and concerned.

"Goodness. You do have it bad."

He cleared his throat. "We'll see how it goes."

To avoid further scrutiny, he told her about Lena's birthday party. She wrinkled her nose at that, but had only a shrug to spare for what the flatshare gang might have to say about him and Marc.

"Who cares what they think? Unless he saves everyone from a fire, they're not going to change their minds about him. Maybe not then." She sat up suddenly, eyes glinting. "I could arrange a fire if you want."

"No, thanks." He said it firmly, all too aware that if he so much as mocked her about it, she might actually do it. "I'd like to keep him unscorched, if possible, and the others, too."

"Boring. Fine, then again I say – who cares about them. You want him in your Essen life? Have fun with _him_. Ignore the rest."

"Hm." He doubted it would be that easy, though he envied her the certainty of that conviction. She'd always done that. They were as different as night and day in many ways, but they did share a certain uncompromising quality when it came to falling in love. When she'd met Ben, it had barely taken her a week's deliberation to uproot herself entirely and move across the country to be near him. He'd been prepared to do the same for Katja, and he supposed his excessive commuting at the moment fell into the same category.

Isabelle was frowning at him. "Papa _will_ find out sooner or later, you know."

Tom shrugged. "So?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "He won't be pleased, and that's an understatement."

"I'm twenty-three years old, Isa. If Dad doesn't like who I'm dating, he can just choke on it."

Isabelle cocked a carefully plucked brow. "Oh, 'dating', is it now?"

"I suppose. Something like that." He gave her a challenging stare. All week, he'd carried around a silly, giddy feeling from the brief exchange on a cold Stuttgart street that had confirmed it. He was not about to have it ruined.

His sister sighed. "You don't need to look at me like that. You know I don't care."

"Generous," Tom grumbled, but she ignored the sharp undertone.

"I mean, okay, he's hot. I'm not entirely sure why you had to go for someone twice your age-"

"Good grief, Isabelle, give it a rest. He's not even thirty-five, for fuck's sake."

"Don't swear at me. My point is, I don't care who you shag, and Marc's a nice guy, but Papa will have… strong opinions on this. You should keep a low profile."

"Or he'll what, disown me?" He said it jokingly, but Isabelle only looked at him, without saying anything. She didn't need to; all he had to do was conjure up their father's cool, angular face, dominated by a pair of icy blue eyes, to know that he wouldn't be joking. Philipp Reichenbach didn't do jokes. He never seemed to have quite grasped the concept of them.

Tom shrugged uneasily. "This is ridiculous. Are you telling me I shouldn't invite Marc to parties because my father might find out? Do you realise how paranoid that sounds?"

"It's up to you." Isabelle was eyeing her new Cosmo magazine with none too subtle longing. "Personally, I don't understand why you're so keen on that party anyway. It's going to be in-jokes and overcooked sausages and cunningly concealed whoopee cushions all night. Why on earth would you subject someone you like to that?"

He grinned. " _You're_ invited."

His little sister had a way of looking at him like he had the average intelligence of a brain-damaged amoeba. She was using that look now.

"I know, and Ben will drag me along and I'll make nice and smile at them, and if Katja does come, I'll get to experience the exquisite joy of being there with _two_ women who've been involved with my husband or wish they were. One of them his sister." She snorted inelegantly. "You know what, on second thought, do invite Marc. We can sit at the harlots and homewreckers' table together and make bitter jokes about you plebes."

"How are things with Ben?" Tom asked gently. Isabelle shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

"Fine. No, rubbish. I don't know, okay? He works a lot. I can't get what he told me about Vanessa out of his head, and whenever I want to talk about it, he says there's nothing to talk about and it's in the past. Fine, maybe for him it is, but for me it's still recent, and… I don't know." She picked at a crack in the heavy oaken table.

"Maybe things will… settle down," he said helplessly; it was admittedly hard to give anyone advice on a confession of incest from their significant other. "It was a long time ago."

"Yeah. But she's here now."

Tom blinked. "You don't think…"

"I don't know what I think." She stood up so abruptly her chair nearly fell. "I don't want to talk about this now. I was about to go running when you came. Don't you have a phone call to make or something?"

"I do." He got up to hug her. She squeezed him back, more tightly than usual.

"Tell Monsieur I said hi. And that I offered a fire."

He laughed. "I will."

"And seriously, Tom, I know you like that rabble at the flatshare, but bother what they think. If you must drag Marc into it, at least have a good time with him." She turned her head to brush her lips against his cheek, then stepped back, grabbing for her water bottle and keys. "As long as it lasts," she said over her shoulder as she left, letting in a cold draft.

***

He called from the penthouse, taking advantage of the quiet. It was rarely quiet at home; if someone wasn't watching television or Ingo wasn't singing, it was Alexander banging his toys about and the girls laughing and talking. Tom usually didn't mind the noise – it was cosy, and incredibly different than the cool, oppressive quiet of their own childhood home – but sometimes it was nice to get away for a bit.

Marc picked up almost immediately, sounding enormously pleased.

"Tom! Hi."

"Hey." Tom grinned stupidly into the phone; he couldn't help it. "Miss me yet?"

A dry snort. "Why, did you go somewhere? I thought I left you tied to the bed."

"You wish."

"I do now. Maybe next time." That dark undertone again, lazy and seductive at once. It was ridiculous how much he could react to just a voice.

"If you're up to it, old man." He laughed at Marc's indignant noise.

"For that alone, you'll get punished."

"Promises, promises." Tom squirmed a little in his jeans. He supposed it would be rude to wank on his sister's father-in-law's expensive leather couch. "Uhm, I'm at Isabelle's, so no phone sex. With my luck, old Steinkamp would walk in on me."

There was a distinct sound of horror on the other end. "Well, that image certainly was an effective mood killer. Change of subject, then: Are we on for Prague?"

He sounded so cheerful that Tom was hesitant to put a damper on it; but the question would have to be posed sooner or later.

"Actually, that's why I called." He explained about the party quickly, trying to make it sound as perfectly normal as possible. "You could stay at mine for a change, or if you think that'll be awkward, we can stay at my sister's. They have a guest room."

There was a long pause; so long, in fact, that Tom was about to ask if Marc was still there when he said, "A party, at your flatshare. Tom, do you have any idea what you're asking?"

 _Here we go_.

"It's just a party. For Lena. She's lovely. You'll get on a treat." He deliberately clung to one of the few people he thought might not be as hopelessly biased as Ingo. "And Roman will be there, and my sister, too. You can catch up."

Marc sighed deeply. "Catch up with my ex while Deniz stands by murdering me with looks? Sounds fun. Besides, I can catch up with Roman any time. We do talk on the phone, you know."

He did know, but the long-suffering tone gave him a stab of irritation, and something less definable. Just what he needed, another reminder of how comfortable Marc was with his ex.

"Yeah, well, it's not just about you," he said, a little more sharply than intended. "I'd really like you to come." And he did, he realised. Earlier, it had been just a random idea, but with every worried look and every objection thrown his way, he'd grown a little more determined.

Marc's eyes shifted colour with his moods, a phenomenon that fascinated Tom endlessly. He guessed if he could see them now, they'd be a stormy blue-grey, hooded by a dark frown. "Come on," he said quickly, trying to add a tone of lightness. "I can't always come to Stuttgart. Don't you think it's time you met my friends?"

"Tom." There was a note of harshness in Marc's smooth, cultured voice that surprised him; he'd rarely known Marc to be less than gracious. "I've met your friends. In fact, you were there the last time I did. Remember?"

"Not too well," he had to admit, grinning. "I was a bit pissed, and the hockey team was _loud._ Anyway, I know things were awkward, but it's bound to be better this time. C'mon, it'll be a laugh."

"A laugh. With Ingo Zadek, who'll be making homophobic quips…"

"He won't-"

"…and Annette, who'll be giving me lectures about ruining yet another person's life." Marc barked a grim laugh. "Yes, I'm sure it'll be a hoot."

"Marc," he pleaded. "Give them a chance. You have to admit circumstances were a bit… strained the last time you saw them. This'll be different. They're decent people."

"I'm sure they are, but…" A sigh. "Did I mention Prague? Good shopping, great restaurants, Old Town, galleries?"

"We can still go some other time…"

"The Lennon Wall?" Marc pressed his advantage, voice dropping low. "A nice hotel where stuff doesn't break? Maybe with a Jacuzzi?" The image of Marc sprawling naked in bubbling hot water, his skin flushed, leaning over him with that sinful smile of his, made Tom waver for a moment, plying him with fantasies of water running smoothly down Marc's chest.

"Tom?"

Marc sounded so hopeful that he had to laugh. "We can't hide from other people forever."

"Hmph. We could hide a little longer."

Parts of Tom fervently agreed, but he ignored them resolutely. "It's just a party."

Another silence, long and doubtful. Then, grudgingly, "Is it really that important to you?"

"It is."

Marc groaned. "Okay, then. I'll fly out Friday night. But you owe me so bloody much."

Tom beamed. "Start a wish list if you like."

"Oh, I will," Marc promised darkly. "I will."


	3. Essen, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Essen meant failure, the past, hostile ground. Essen meant all of the risks and none of the payoff." (Alternative summary: Roman decides to drop out of the skating business and write self-help books about cross-generational dating instead. Yessssssss.)

The show was running smoothly, which meant Marc had too much time to think. Technically, this was the stage in a production that he ought to enjoy the most. _Slayer_ had hit the market at just the right time. Fantasy, once a fringe genre, was still riding high on the mainstream tide; musicals were _the_ cheesy retro fad du jour, and the audience had enthusiastically embraced the skating component. Norman and Caroline were getting swamped with adoring fan mail, and André's star was rising so fast that Marc occasionally feared he might lose his Yuri to some more tempting offer. So far the young skater seemed happy to stay, basking in the success. Marc hoped the novelty wouldn't wear off too soon.

(He'd been amused and more than a little touched to discover that although both Caroline Gülke and Mikkeline Kierkegaard were well-loved in their roles as Queen Eltara, there was a small but devoted circle of fans who still paid homage to Isabelle for her one-time performance on opening night. Recordings of the premiere were already coveted cult items, and there was a fiercely loyal online presence devoted to Isabelle's incarnation of Eltara. They even had a blog.)

Apart from the odd thought spent on keeping his cast happy, the production didn't demand that much of his problem-solving skills right now. Instead of enjoying the break from the initial stress, though, the lull only made Marc antsy. What he loved about his job were the challenges, the parts where he really had to work hard to get things off the ground – getting the right people, moulding them into a team, facing a new obstacle every day and figuring out a way to approach it. He was perfectly capable of appreciating the workings of a show that had found its feet like some graceful dancer reaching his peak, but it was the half-formed golem of the early days that he loved; the one that might flounder and die if he didn't find a way to overcome impossibilities. Successful routine was a welcome reward but it didn't capture him the same way as those early stages of creativity and magic did.

Also, it left him with far too much time to obsess about other things. Things like a certain charming, messy-haired, much too young and much too determined boy who already held a worrisome degree of sway over him; even so far as to make him agree to this bloody party.

He held very few illusions that it might go anything but wrong. The Essen crowd would bare their teeth and snarl at him like last time; he could see it unfold like some predictable television trope, and yet he seemed powerless to stay away from it. _Damn you, Tom._

He sat back from his pile of paperwork, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. The show was due to go on tour in two weeks and there were things to organise, but he was bored of logistics and couldn't focus. He still had the website of the Prague hotel open in a separate window. Reluctantly, he bookmarked it for later and closed it, then started a listless PR email.

Two minutes later he still hadn't got past the "Dear Sir or Madam," when the phone rang. _Roman_ , the display announced. His pulse still automatically sped when that happened. He wondered how long that would take to fade, this time.

"Hey. Am I interrupting?"

Marc leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. "You are, but please don't stop. Work is boring."

"Okay. I was wondering… has, uhm, Tom-"

"Yes, uhm, Tom has," Marc replied, amused despite himself. "And I said yes. Don't-"

"You're insane."

"-say I'm insane," he finished, grimacing.

Roman sounded more than agitated, well into the realm of concerned. "I tried to stop him, but I don't think he has a clue what happened last time. With Ingo, I mean."

"It'll be fine, I'm sure," Marc lied easily. "Don't worry about me."

"Easy in theory," Roman said grimly, and hung up before Marc could reply. He stared at his mobile for a few seconds, taken aback by the fierceness of Roman's tone. He was even tempted to call back, demanding clarification, but he stopped himself in time. Roman's feelings were none of his business anymore, and it wasn't like he didn't have enough on his own plate. _Damn Tom.  
_  


***

On Friday evening, he flew to Essen with mixed feelings and a bizarre sense of déjà vu. The cab was white; for all he knew, it might have been the same one that had taken him away the last time. The driver was young and chatty; that much was different. Marc made small-talk about the weather and his work, grateful for the distraction. He hadn't expected to be back here anytime soon. In fact, despite Tom frequently sharing anecdotes of the Centre and his flatmates, Marc somehow hadn't made the logical association that sooner or later Tom might want to switch commuting duties. Being with Tom meant weekends in Stuttgart, sometimes a few extra days here and there. Until the party came up, he'd never considered going back to Essen. Essen meant failure, the past, hostile ground. Essen meant all of the risks and none of the payoff.

It started out harmlessly enough. He'd remember that, after.

He ran into young Florian just outside the building, trying to balance two grocery bags and open the door at the same time. Marc moved in quickly to open the door.

"Here, let me help you with that." He took one of the bags and shifted his carry-all to balance more securely.

Florian smiled up at him. "Thanks, mate… oh!" The boy's eyes widened when he recognised him, and Marc automatically braced. But the angry attack he'd half expected didn't come. After a moment's hesitation, Florian's smile reappeared, though it was more cautious now.

"Er, Marc. Hi. How's, uhm, stuff?"

Marc smiled back, relieved. He couldn't help wonder whether Roman had prepped his brother or whether the youngest Wild just happened to be the most miraculously well-adjusted kid in the world.

"Hello, Florian. 'Stuff' is fine, thanks, and yourself?"

"Uh, yeah, grand. I mean, would be better if my girlfriend was here, but she's off visiting her dad this weekend. Her dad's in jail. Not for anything bad, just credit card fraud. I mean, not that that's nothing, but it wasn't his fault. I mean, it was, but… anyway, no murder or anything. That I know of. Blimey, this elevator always takes forever, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't really know," Marc replied, amused. Paradoxically, the boy's nervous babble made him feel a little better. "I've only been here a couple of times."

"Right, yeah. Anyway. How's stuff?"

The elevator finally stopped and released them into a loud blast of Beach Boys music and spicy food smells, saving Marc the bother of replying that stuff was still fine. He held the elevator door open for Florian, only to have it almost yanked from his hand.

"Flo, finally! Did you get the candles?"

Marc turned, and found himself face to face with Deniz Öztürk. Deniz stilled when he recognised him, his friendly grin freezing. Marc had somehow forgotten just how tall Roman's boyfriend was, and how devastatingly pretty. For a long moment, they stared at each other. After what felt like an eternity, Deniz relaxed imperceptibly, his expression settling into bland indifference.

"Oh," he said dismissively. "It's you."

Marc hadn't previously been aware just how much venom could be injected into one tiny innocent personal pronoun, but then he supposed he was lucky he wasn't getting the door slammed back in his face.

"I'll just, uh…" Florian squeezed past them and all but ran for the kitchen. Marc couldn't blame him.

"Deniz." He nodded at the younger man with all the good grace he could muster. "How are you?"

Deniz's eyes narrowed briefly, then he shrugged and plucked the groceries bag from Marc's hands. "Fine. Want a beer? Wine? Prosecco? Champagne?"

Marc ignored the slight sneer on the last option. "A beer would be great, thanks." He felt uncomfortably on the spot. A small gaggle of boys Flo's age had only briefly looked up at his entrance before they returned to a loud discussion about someone called Franziska and her epic tits. From the sofa, though, Annette was staring at him with narrowed eyes. She was with two women he thought he recognised from reception at the Centre. Ingo Zadek and Marian Öztürk were standing in a corner together, shooting him filthy looks. None of them bothered to say hello.

"Marc!"

Someone bowled into him from behind, nearly knocking him over. Decades of figure skating instinct saved him; he spun and suddenly found himself with an armful of breathless, delighted Tom. "You came!" he exclaimed.

Despite his unease, Marc couldn't help smiling. "I did." Instinctively, he leaned in for a kiss, before he remembered where they were and brushed his lips against Tom's cheekbone instead. "Hello."

Drawing back, he briefly saw Tom's eyes flicker with amusement. He was about to ask what was funny when suddenly Tom was right there, pressed up close against him. Warm hands framed his cheeks, and then Tom's lips met his. It was by no means a chaste kiss. Someone hooted. Someone else – he was pretty sure it was Ingo – made a retching noise. For one fleeting moment it didn't matter. It felt too good to be welcomed without reservations, to have obviously been missed.

"Here's your beer." Deniz was back, thrusting the bottle at him. His mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Or maybe I should just pour it on Tom?"

Tom finally broke away from the kiss and made a rude gesture at Deniz, one arm slung casually around Marc's hip. "Try it, Öztürk. Just try it."

Roman had appeared beside Deniz, elbowing him in the ribs. "Don't be rude. Hi, Marc. How was your flight? I've been reading the press releases on _Slayer_. It's been a real hit, hasn't it? Oh, have you ever met Lena?"

Marc barely got a hello in edgewise; Roman was in high-speed babble mode the way he did when he was nervous. He stood close to Deniz, his eyes moving rapidly between him, Tom, Marc, and the pretty, petite blonde he had dragged along. There was a flush high on his cheekbones. He was looking good, Marc thought; a bit tired perhaps, and his cheerful tone was a little too forced, but he looked better than he had back in December. Happier.

He smiled at the blonde girl Roman practically shoved at him. "Not directly, but I've seen you around the Steinkamp Centre. You work there?"

Lena gave him a friendly nod. "As a personal trainer, yes. I did see you around, too – you were working out a lot." Her smile held a wicked glint, but it was more mischievous than malicious.

"I did, yes." He didn't dare look at either Deniz or Roman, hoping the casual reminder of his days in Essen wouldn't cause any blowups. He hurriedly moved on to his birthday wishes instead, presenting her with the neatly wrapped gifts he'd brought.

"The red one is for your little boy," he explained. "When they were very young, my niece and nephew always used to get upset when some grown-up got presents and there was nothing for them."

Lena laughed. "Alexander's the same. Thanks – he'll be so pleased!" Setting the wrapped toy truck aside, she ripped the wrapping paper off her own gift with charming eagerness. "Oh, earrings!"

"I hope they're alright. Tom said you liked butterflies."

She beamed at him, already unhooking her gold hoops to exchange them for the delicate green and purple butterflies dangling from intricate silver webbing. She tossed her head to make them dangle against her cheeks. "They're lovely. Thank you. Sorry I can't stay and chat, I need to help Annette with the food. We're having Thai and I don't trust her with the recipe at all. Tom, you did say you were helping?"

"In a minute." Tom tugged at the strap of Marc's carry-all. "C'mon, let's dump your stuff in my room."

Marc followed him, glad for a few more moments' respite. The room was spacious but cluttered: shelves haphazardly stacked with books, a table full of sketches scattered around Tom's laptop, a huge external monitor and various electronic gadgets and cables. More books and papers lay strewn about the thick brown rug, in addition to a few orphan socks. An inside-out sweater peeked out from under the bed, and Marc rather suspected that more mess had been shoved underneath it. A Ficus plant languished in a corner. The rough white-washed walls were bare except for a round-faced retro clock and a huge National Geographic print of the great wall of China, running the length of one wall.

"Er, sorry," Tom said sheepishly, kicking a sock out of sight. "I'd meant to tidy up but Annette needed my help with the menu so I didn't get round to it this afternoon and then-"

"It's fine." Marc set down his bag and hooked his fingers through Tom's belt loops, tugging him close. "I missed you," he murmured, rubbing his cheek against Tom's to feel the softness of his beard before he kissed him. Tom tasted of spices and wine and the leisurely hello kiss Marc had had in mind quickly turned into something more heated. For a few seconds they were all but tussling, arms in each others way in their eagerness to get closer. Eventually Marc managed to get his fingers under Tom's shirt, running his palms up the lean muscles of his back. Tom arched against him with a growl. His own hands were everywhere, on Marc's shoulders, in his hair, finally sliding down to grasp at his arse, kneading him through his pants. They were already tangled on the bed when Tom shoved, gasping, at Marc's chest and struggled to get up.

"Marc, not now. The party…"

"Sod the party," Marc growled, digging a hand into Tom's curls to pull back his head and kiss him harder. For a moment, Tom responded, but then he pushed again, more firmly this time.

"No, really. I promised Lena." There was an audible note of regret in his voice, but he laughed at Marc's despondent face. "Later," he promised, smoothing the palm of his hand against Marc's cheek. He was flushed and breathless, and in the golden light of his tall silk-screen lamp, his husky eyes were impossibly blue. It cost Marc all his self-restraint to let him go.

"Later," he agreed with a sigh, smoothing back his hair and tucking his shirt back into his pants.

When they re-emerged into the main room, the place had filled up considerably. Marc spotted Deniz chatting with a short, curvy brunette while a middle-aged couple were talking with Roman and Ben Steinkamp, and several more people Marc didn't recognise. With an apologetic look and a promise to be back soon, Tom went to join Lena and Annette in the kitchen area. Marc didn't spot Katja Bergmann anywhere. He wondered if she was still coming or whether she had begged off. For Tom's sake, he hoped for the latter. After his initial confession about just how recent their break-up had been, Tom hadn't spoken much of Katja, but Marc could tell Tom wasn't entirely over the messy way things had ended between them. It wasn't every day that you got dumped the day before your sister's wedding and then had to watch your ex-girlfriend try to throw herself at the groom.

Yes, he dearly hoped Katja would stay away.

"Marc!" He turned to see Isabelle coming towards him, squeezing through between two leering teenagers with her wine glass held high. She was stunning in a strawberry-red dress that showed off her long legs and exquisite shoulders. He got a whiff of expensive perfume when she kissed his cheeks.

"Thank god. At least one person in the room to have a civilised conversation with." She didn't bother to keep her voice down. Marc noticed Ingo glaring at them but decided to ignore him.

"Isabelle. You look fantastic. How have you been?"

"Oh, you know. Busy. My slavedriver of a trainer makes sure of that." She narrowed her eyes at Roman, who joined them just then, slipping an arm around her waist and raising his glass in a mock toast.

"And it's paying off, princess, so don't complain. You got silver at the Germans."

"I heard about that," Marc interjected. "Congratulations!" He raised his beer bottle as well, clinking glasses.

"Thanks. I'd have preferred gold."

"Next time, I'm sure."

"How's _Slayer_ going?" Her eyes glittered with genuine interest and just a little wistfulness. Marc's heart went out to her. Upon first meeting her, he had automatically categorised Isabelle Steinkamp as a spoilt, self-absorbed skater princess. During those mad three days when he'd watched her struggle to fill the lead female's role in his ice musical, he'd grown a certain grudging respect for her professional determination. Later still, after a few tense arguments with Tom, he'd come to realise there might be more to her than even that. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get to find out what, but for Tom's sake, he'd give her the benefit of the doubt, and then some.

"It's going really well. We'll be touring in a couple of weeks. Tom did tell you about your hardcore fanbase, right? You're cult material, Your Majesty."

Roman grinned broadly, giving her a quick squeeze. "Just as I told you. Marc, did you ever get a new horse prop?"

"Better," he laughed, "we've got a flying one now."

They dove into discussing the production and the changes he'd made to it, before they moved on to the German Championships this year, Isabelle's chances at Worlds, and the Steinkamps' efforts to recruit new promising skaters. Marc warmed quickly to the conversation, allowing himself to relax a little bit. Maybe this would turn out alright after all. Most of the other guests had been ignoring him but he was more than okay right where he was. Roman, too, seemed to have relaxed and was talking at a more natural pace now – meaning a slightly less frantic babble than earlier – and Isabelle was in a dryly charming mood, occasionally quipping about the other guests but generally keeping it mild. Tom was bustling about in the kitchen or, from the looks of it, playing kitchen slave to the Bergmann sisters. Once, he caught Marc's eye and waved a ladle at him so enthusiastically that he managed to flick curry sauce everywhere, including on the birthday girl's white shirt.

Dinner was a highly chaotic buffet affair, with everyone shoving and pushing around the counter and table where the dishes had been set out. Marc sat with Tom and Ben, squeezed together at a corner of a wobbly spare table. Marc raised his brows as he tasted the green curry and ginger fried chicken heaped on rice.

"This is delicious. I didn't know you were that good a cook."

Tom poked out his tongue at him. "That's because you live in a hotel. My opportunities to dazzle you with my cooking prowess have been somewhat limited."

"I'll do my damnedest to procure a kitchen," he promised, thinking once again of his own apartment. For the first time, it didn't seem that impossible to imagine Tom in his kitchen, whistling and splattering sauce everywhere.

Tom and Ben talked about their game as they ate, discussing marketing strategies. It still struck Marc as odd that Tom actually had a clue about such things; he was so much the opposite of your average business student. Marc had asked him once why he'd dropped out and gotten a very curt answer of _I hated it._ Curiosity had driven him to prod a little more, asking why Tom had left after three years; wouldn't it have been more practical to stick out one extra year and actually have a degree to show for it? _Sometimes it's not about what's the most practical_ , Tom had replied, rather sharply, and Marc had stopped asking. He suspected it had something to do with Reichenbach Sr., business tycoon, but if there was one topic that Tom didn't readily speak about, it was his parents, and Marc didn't want to push. He was sure he'd find out in time.

Progress on the game sounded interesting, though. He offered input where he could, suggesting skating contacts as prospective sponsors. Under the table, Tom's free hand rested warmly on his thigh the entire time, and he kept stealing bits off of Marc's plate. It was a habit he had always hated in other people, but for some reason it didn't bother him now. He had no idea why, but he was getting used to that. Being with Tom was a daily exercise in reassessing old habits and preferences.

***

The trouble started with an Öztürk; strangely enough, it wasn't the one he'd expected it from.

He'd begun to mingle more freely – if selectively – among the other party guests, figuring that clinging to your younger boyfriend's elbow all evening was pathetic behaviour. So he left Tom and Ben to some ancient computer game Deniz had brought. He chatted with Lena for a while, and she introduced the bright-eyed brunette as Deniz' friend Vanessa. The girl scrutinised him with blatant curiosity, but she joined the conversation without hostility, and he liked the frankness of her grin. Eventually the girls left to push some furniture to the walls and dance madly to the pop mix that was blaring from the stereo. Drifting on, Marc ran into the elder couple he had spotted when he'd first come in. It took introductions before he recognised the jolly bald-headed man as Annette's fry stand help; he looked entirely different in plain clothes, almost suave. Introductions also revealed that they shared a first name, which led to amused anecdotes about nicknames.

Marc had actually started to almost enjoy himself by the time he wandered to the kitchen area for another drink. One of the dancing girls veered off course a little too far and bumped into him. Side-stepping her, he ran into someone in turn.

"Oh, sorry!" He held up his newly opened beer bottle to avoid spillage just as the man he'd collided with turned around and Marc found himself staring into the slightly bloodshot blue eyes of Marian Öztürk. The other man's mouth curled briefly. He was holding a beer bottle, too, though he looked a good deal more drunk than anyone else.

"Sorry," Marc repeated. "Someone pushed me. I suppose the girls have had a little too much to drink." If he and Deniz could manage to be civil, he thought, surely he should be able to manage the same with Deniz' father.

Marian muttered something in Turkish, then tipped his bottle slightly. Slow as the motion was, Marc was even slower; it came so wholly unexpected that he felt beer soaking his trouser leg before he could react. He cursed, jumping back and wiping foam off his thigh. Beer was trickling down his leg, sticky and cold. The stain was already spreading to his knee.

"What the hell?!" He looked up angrily, to find Marian grinning.

"Sorry," he sneered. "Someone pushed me."

He disappeared into the crowd before Marc could say anything else. He wiped at his trousers mechanically, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The deliberate, casual pettiness had caught him wholly off guard.

He tried to come up with justifications. _He was drunk. His girlfriend is dead. I did fuck over his son._

 __But none of it quite worked. At worst, he'd have expected petty gestures from Deniz himself. But Deniz had been neutral, even decent. _This was a bad idea_.

"There you are!" Marc very nearly got a second serving of beer over his trousers, this time from his own bottle, when Tom jostled into him with his usual lack of grace or basic physical coordination.

"Watch it!" he said, instinctively sharp.

"Sorry." Tom didn't seem to notice his tone. He was flushed and dishevelled and smelled faintly of weed. Marc battled a moment's prolonged irritation. Tom wasn't exactly a dopehead; if he enjoyed the occasional joint, that was his own business. He'd just have preferred him slightly more clear-headed just now. "Are you having an okay time? I'm sorry there are more people than planned. Annette got kind of carried away."

"It's fine." He hesitated, then smiled, brushing an ever-stubborn lock out of Tom's forehead. "It _is_ getting a bit crowded, though. Don't suppose you'd fancy a change of venue, just you and me?"

Tom nodded. "In half an hour or so, okay? I lost at Bavouche, which means Ben gets to pick the next game. He's insisting on spin the bottle."

He looked apologetic, and a little embarrassed. Marc groaned. "What is he, twelve? Alright, go snog people, then, as long as I can abduct you to a nice bar after." Something horrible occurred to him. "I'm not expected to play, am I?"

Tom nearly choked laughing. "No, don't worry. I won't be long, then I'm all yours."

He stole a kiss before he dashed off, and Marc stayed behind slightly mollified, if no longer exactly entertained. He peered around to see if he could spot any of his earlier allies, but Keule and Renate were mingling with the loud crowd clearing the coffee table for the game, Lena was still dancing and Isabelle was nowhere to be seen.

"'Scuse me." Someone stepped past him to get to the drinks. He should really move out of the danger zone, Marc thought, before he recognised Deniz. He shot Marc an odd side glance as he filled two plastic cups with wine. "You okay?"

He would be, if deliberate beer spilling was not a family hobby. "Yes." Just walking off would be rude. He groped about for a semi-safe topic of conversation. "So I hear you and Roman are planning to leave Essen?" Roman had mentioned it a few times on the phone, although he hadn't talked concrete plans yet.

Deniz' eyes sharpened but he nodded politely enough. "Yeah, we're researching. Roman's been looking into jobs with ice show productions." He squeezed the cork back in the wine bottle and frowned at Marc. "Suppose we have you to thank for that."

He didn't know what to say, so he went with diplomatic silence. Deniz shrugged. "That's good, I mean. He's happy." His gaze travelled past Marc, sought and found Roman somewhere in the crowd. Immediately his face softened. It reminded Marc of the first time he'd seen Deniz, when he hadn't yet known who Marc was; when he'd mentioned calling his boyfriend then, his face had worn the same expression. Marc had appreciated it then, always having set much store by loyalty; seeing it now made him think, with unexpected warmth, _You're alright_.

He cleared his throat. "Anywhere in particular?"

"Roman's going to Vancouver next month. Lars has mentioned something about needing a trainer for his new production. He's going to check it out."

"Sounds good." He meant it. Admittedly he was as biased against Essen as Essen seemed to be against him, but he couldn't help feeling anything but relief at the thought of Roman escaping from it. From the Steinkamp Centre and its constantly precarious economics, from this close-knit neighbourhood that to Marc seemed as much a trap as a home. From the friends who'd dropped him like a hot potato the second he deviated from their accepted code of behaviour, and likely would again. This was no place for misfits. Even forgiveness here came with a hidden edge.

"Yeah." A moment of awkward silence, then Deniz grabbed his two cups of wine. "Well, then… have fun."

"You too."

"You look like you peed yourself, by the way." Deniz grinned as he said it but Marc didn't mind the jab; against all his expectations, Deniz had actually been one of the people who'd treated him without open hostility tonight, and he was grateful.

He grinned back. "Yeah. I should wash that out."

He was in the bathroom doing just that when someone knocked on the door. "One moment!" Marc called out, scrubbing a washcloth over the stain. His entire thigh was soaked now, but at least he'd managed to get the smell of beer out.

The door opened, and he startled. "I said-"

Annette Bergmann closed the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed. Marc frowned at her. "Excuse me? I was nearly done." He supposed he was lucky he hadn't been on the toilet.

She was facing him with a hard, unblinking stare that he recognised all too well. "I've been looking for you."

"Oh?" He wondered what was the best way to politely bring up the fact that they were in a bathroom. "Uhm… we're in a bathroom."

"What are your intentions towards Tom?"

"What?!"

Her eyes narrowed even more at his incredulous tone. "You heard me. His parents don't seem to know or care-"

"He's a grown man, his parents have no _business_ knowing!"

She talked right over him. "-his sister is a heartless bitch, and he's my friend. Someone has to ask."

He was getting heartily sick of this. "Look, Annette, no offence – but you're not _my_ friend…"

"Thank god for that."

"… and I have no intentions of letting you interrogate me. My relationships are really none of your business."

"They are when they ruin my friends' lives!" she said sharply. Marc stood back from the sink and hung up the washcloth. _Here we go._ He felt more weary than defensive.

"I'm not ruining anyone's lives."

"You nearly ruined Roman's. And Deniz's."

He ignored that; nothing he ever said or did would change her opinion on that score. It must be nice, he thought, to have your world divided so neatly into black and white, offender and victim.

"I'm with Tom now. And what's between us is just that – between us. If he chooses to confide in you as a friend, great. I don't have to." He walked towards the door, willing her to step aside. She did, but something in her face gave him pause; she looked angry enough to throw something at him, but there was something else there too, some deeper current of genuine fear. It made him recall, reluctantly, the many times Roman had talked about this woman: her brash judgements, yes, but also the times she'd dropped everything and flown to his defence or rescue. Marc couldn't entirely fault her for trying to do the same for Tom.

He sighed, opening the door. "For what it's worth, I like him. A lot."

Her mouth twisted a bit. "That really doesn't console me."

"And that's really not my problem," Marc told her coolly, and left the bathroom.

The party had grown even more raucous since his little run-in with Marian Öztürk. A couple of teenage boys had hoisted Lena up on their shoulders and were parading her round the room while Ingo serenaded her loudly, laying into the strings of his guitar. She was laughing and shouting protests, though whether it was at the boys' bouncing her around or Ingo's off-key singing wasn't clear. The rest of the younger people were in various stages of intoxication, gathered around the coffee table which had been cleared for an empty Prosecco bottle. Hoots and cheers rose just as Vanessa leaned across the table to press a kiss on Constanze's lips. They were making a show of it, too, letting the kiss linger well past the demands of the game. The guys looked like they'd died and gone to heaven.

Tom was sitting between Ben and one of Florian's friends, laughing with the rest of them, taking a careless drag on the joint someone passed him. He looked up as if he'd sensed Marc's gaze on him and caught his eye. Marc forced a smile and tilted his head hopefully towards the door. He hoped he wasn't being too much of a party-pooper but the encounters with Marian and Annette had dimmed his mood, and the pounding music mixed with Ingo's singing was starting to give him a headache.

Tom nodded at him enthusiastically, holding up five fingers and mouthing "soon." Relieved, Marc nodded back, and Tom rewarded with a smile that somehow managed to be entirely private despite his friends jostling him from both sides. Marc felt it tug at his newfound tension with a thrill of mixed warmth and apprehension. Somehow, he'd managed to get involved with the most ingenuous guy in the world, and no matter how carefully he constructed his defences when he was alone, all reason seemed to fly right out the window as soon as Tom flashed him that guileless grin.

It was highly alarming.

"It's not the worst thing in the world, you know," Roman said casually from beside him. Marc startled. Apparently this party had a secret theme of people sneaking up on him without him noticing.

"What?"

Roman smiled against the mouth of his beer bottle and nodded towards the coffee table, where Deniz, flushing crimson, exchanged a brief kiss with Frau Scholz. "Dating someone younger."

Marc arched a brow, simultaneously amused and appalled at how easily Roman could still read him. "Oh? Do you have a handy manual?"

"No, but I could probably write one," Roman smirked and promptly started to tick items off his fingers. "Learn to like stupid movies and recognise atrocious bands. Get used to stuff being messy because if you nag and clean after him, you'll turn into his mother. Don't patronise. Don't freak out when he forgets to call. Make time for nights where you both do your own stuff, independently. Never say _when I was your age_ , and don't try to mould him _._ When there's something that needs talking about, don't let him get away with grunting _everything's fine_. Try not to obsess about the differences, and let him sweep you along sometimes. It's fun." He smiled at Marc and shrugged a shoulder. "Let him surprise you. They're good at that."

Roman's smile tightened something in Marc’s chest. He cast a quick glance at the spin the bottle round and found Tom looking back at him, forehead creased in a slight frown. "Sounds like a lot to keep in mind," he said.

"Maybe. But try to make a list about dating _anyone_ , it probably wouldn't be much shorter. Oh yeah," Roman snapped his fingers, "I forgot. Wank him off first, to take the edge off. He'll last longer afterwards."

He burst out laughing, just as another round of jeering rose from the group. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

"I'm game if you are." It was Tom, laughing, if a bit distractedly. He was still casting sideways glances at Marc. Across from him, Florian squirmed, his grin a little panicked. "Er, c'mon, man. It was pointing at the wall."

"Sorry, mate, the wall isn't playing. Unless someone wants to stand in…"  
 _  
_Ingo, roaring drunk, knocked over several empty and half-empty glasses as he lurched across the room and leaned over the back of the couch. "I'll do it! Stand-in! Back-up! Zadek smooch to the rescue!" He grabbed Tom by the ears and planted a big, lopsided wet kiss on his mouth, accompanied by the approving cheers of the others.

"There you go!" he declared triumphantly when he stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. "Don't tell me that wasn't better than your fancy frou-frou fuckbuddy? You might break my heart."

The noise died down a little bit. Feet were shuffled; a few nervous titters rang out. Marc could feel glances brush him and then quickly move on, embarrassed. His face felt frozen. Dimly he registered Roman putting a hand on his arm.

Tom's face had gone very red. He extricated himself from the sofa, almost falling over the legs of the hockey player sitting next to him.

"Ingo," he said furiously, "Shut. The hell. Up."

It wasn't enough; or rather, everything was well past enough. Marc set his beer bottle down on the counter, very gently, and walked out. Someone murmured, loud enough to be heard, "Good riddance." Marian, perhaps. It didn't matter. He was glad the lift was already there; at least it saved him the embarrassment of having to wait for it while they stared. As the door fell shut behind him, Tom called his name. He didn't wait.

***

The spring night was very chilly, the night sky obscured by thick clouds. It smelled like snow. Marc breathed in the cold air gratefully, trying to expel the lingering smells of smoke and beer and perfume from his lungs. His head was pounding. His still-wet trouser leg grew freezing cold within moments.

He waited a few minutes, then jammed his hands into his pockets and started walking. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He should never have come. He'd known it wouldn't work out. Not here, not with these people. Damn Essen. Damn these two blocks of incestuous, tangled relationships, unspoken rules. It was like a house full of booby traps.

"Marc! Wait!"

He walked on stubbornly until Tom caught up with him, grabbing his arm. His hand was very warm through the thin material of his shirt. "Marc, I'm sorry. It's just Ingo. He was drunk and he's a moron. I'll have a word with-"

"Don't bother. He'll never see your side, and frankly I don't give a toss about his good opinion. I'd rather not see him snog you again if it's all the same to you, but other than that, all I really want is to stay out of his way."

Tom was blinking at him confusedly. "Look, you're not mad about the snog, are you? It was just a game."

He snorted. "Of course I'm not. The last thing I'm worried about is Ingo Zadek as serious competition."

"I'll talk to him," Tom insisted. "I will. He's got a grudge, I know, but once you get to know him, he's really-"

"I don't care to get to know him, Tom," Marc interrupted brusquely. "I shouldn't have come. These people… it was a stupid idea."

Tom's forehead crinkled. "What was?"

"Coming here."

"What are you saying?" Tom asked quietly. Marc evaded his gaze.

"It's just not going to work."

"What are you talking about?" Tom was starting to sound annoyed too. "Look, I can handle Ingo, and so can you. Don't give up on all of them just because of one stupid line from one drunk guy!"

"It wasn't just him." Marc briefly told him about Marian and Annette. Tom stared at the stain on his trousers. His eyes had gone dark and angry.

"They're unbelievable! Why didn't you tell me right away?"

He snorted, thoroughly fed up with this situation. "Why, so you could slap their hands and tell them to stop it? It wouldn't help. Besides," he added stiffly, "you seemed a little busy getting stoned with Flo's friends."

"Excuse me?!" Tom burst out, incredulous. "I had two drags, Marc, don't act as if I've been drugged out of my head all night! In case it's escaped you, you're my boyfriend, not my father."

Was it his imagination, or had the temperature just dropped even lower? He struggled for control over his voice, his face. He supposed he'd deserved that, and it wasn't like he didn't know Tom had claws. Still… _you know just exactly how to draw blood, don't you?_

Tom took a deep breath, his own struggle for composure much more visible than Marc's. "Marc, I'll fix it. I'll talk to them."

"How many times?" Marc asked. A cold breeze stirred the night air and he hunched his shoulders against it.

Tom's lips compressed in a stubborn line. "Until they see sense."

Marc sighed. "They'll never see sense. Tom, this is pointless. These people will never accept me. I'm already branded as a disturber of the peace."

He could almost feel some of the heat of Tom's anger shift back towards him. "You don't know that. Don't give me that fatalistic shit. Are you seriously going to give up after just one evening?"

"It wasn't just one evening. If you'll remember, I've met them before. This has happened before."

Tom leaned in, eyes flashing. "What is ' _this'_? It hasn't happened with me, and it's not the same. I'm not Roman!"

"I know that."

"Yeah." Tom's mouth twitched. "Bummer, huh?"

"Excuse me?" Tom stared at him in mutinous silence, and Marc shook his head. "This is getting ridiculous, and it's late. We can talk tomorrow. I'll get a hotel." His things were still upstairs in Tom's room, but there was no way he was going back into that snake pit tonight. He did have his wallet with him, that was the important thing. He'd just have to deal without a toothbrush or change of clothes for a night.

Tom was glaring at him hotly. "Right. Same hotel you got while you were here last time, maybe? Same room, by any chance? So you can wallow in your sacred memories of Roman?"

"Excuse me?" Marc knew he was repeating himself, but he really had no idea what else to say. His head was throbbing, and he was feeling slightly nauseous. Tom waved his arm in an angry, uncoordinated gesture.

"Oh, please. Don't pretend this is all about how awful my friends are. Like I haven't seen you with him tonight? Like I don't see the way you look at him still?"

Where the hell had that come from? "We were just talking!"

"Yeah. You just talk. And look. And think. And pine after the one that got away. Marc Hagendorf and Roman Wild, A Tragic Tale of Thwarted Love. Aren't you mixing up the real world with your musicals a bit?"

"You're embarrassing yourself. It was nothing like that."

"Don't patronise me!" Tom hissed, with sudden fury. "Any blind man would've seen it. The smiles, the touches… you weren't being exactly subtle, you know."

"You're out of line," Marc said coldly. "And really acting like an idiot child right now." He knew even as he said the words that he'd gone too far, but it was too late to take them back. There went another one of Roman's rules. He tried to remember whether it was the second one he'd broken tonight, or the third.

Tom's head jerked back a little, as if he'd felt some physical impact. In the dim light of the streetlamp, his eyes looked black as tar, boiling with anger and hurt. "Fuck you," he ground out.

Marc was freezing in his thin shirt, and suddenly tired and disgusted with them both. The night was chilly and spring seemed a long way off. He wished he had a little of Tom's temper; the heat of it might warm him. His own fury was a cold and biting thing, like frost creeping into his very bones.

"I'm going to the Meinberger Hof," he told Tom, struggling to keep his voice neutral. "Call me tomorrow once you've calmed down." Another wrong thing to say, he knew immediately. Again, too late. "If you still want to," he added as he walked away.


	4. Maybe For Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question is answered, and Lena meddles, but nobody minds.

The elevator took a long time to arrive. When it finally did, it spat out Deniz and Roman, along with a group of drunken hockey players. The teenagers tottered past Tom without noticing him, engrossed in an even more off-key rendition of Ingo's birthday song. Roman, though, made a beeline for him.

"Tom. Are you alright?" His eyes briefly scanned the lobby behind him as if he expected to see Marc there too. It only heightened Tom's sick feeling of humiliation.

"I'm fine," he said curtly, eyeing the open elevator door with longing.

Roman didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Is Marc…" He trailed off. It was all Tom could do not to snarl that it wasn't any more his business than Ingo's or Annette's, but that wouldn't have been fair. It was bad enough that he'd yelled at Marc about Roman that way, at the worst possible moment, after he'd held back and told himself to be patient for so long. To drag Roman into it too would make it so much worse.

"He's upset," he replied, forcing himself to speak calmly. Roman grimaced sympathetically.

"I bet. I told Ingo what an ass he is, by the way. Using small words."

"Right." Instead of gratitude, irritation pricked at him. As if he wasn't perfectly capable of telling Ingo that himself. "Thanks."

"Is there anything-"

"Roman." Deniz, who had been listening in silence so far, stepped forward to take Roman's hand. "I think we can let Tom handle the rest. Let's go home."

"But-"

"Roman." Tom watched them exchange a brief glance. Nothing was said, but Roman nodded reluctantly.

"Okay. Good night, then."

"Night." Deniz shot Tom a look in passing that he couldn't read. He wondered, though, whether perhaps Deniz didn't understand better than Tom even wanted him to.

The party, though reduced by some attendants, was still going on. Tom didn't see Marian anywhere, which under the circumstances was probably for the best, but Ingo and Annette were slow-dancing to a cheesy pop song. Ingo blinked at him over Annette's shoulder, bleary-eyed, and Tom shot him a death glare.

"I'm going to repeat this tomorrow, Zadek, to make sure you remember it, but just so you know: Another stunt like that and we're not friends." He stormed through the connecting door before Ingo could reply. He really didn't trust his temper if he got into a fight with Ingo now.

Marc's bag was still in his room, in the same spot where Marc had dropped it in his haste to get his hands on him. Tom stared at it for a moment, then muttered a curse and flopped onto his bed.

He couldn't get the image of Marc with Roman out of his head – standing close together, almost touching, laughing at some private joke. Marc's face had been relaxed for the first time all night, except perhaps when they'd been in here alone. _Great. So all I need to do to keep him happy is either never let him meet any of my friends, or keep his ex around at all times._

He knew he was being petty, and didn't particularly care; he was still too rattled by how quickly it had all gone down the drain. Half an hour ago, he'd thought things were going swimmingly. He'd been so proud of Marc, moving smoothly among the party guests, charming the women, chatting with Keule, even getting on with Deniz from the looks of it. Now… he tried to focus on his irritation with his meddling friends, but his mind kept slipping downstairs to their confrontation in the street, the things that couldn't be unsaid. He flushed hotly at the memory of being reminded of his age, but his mind insisted on zooming in on his own outburst. It made him think of a conversation they'd had back at the beginning: it had been early days, the week after that first time. If there was one thing he knew about Marc, it was how keen he was on playing with open cards.

_If we're going to keep doing this, there's something you should know about me,_ Marc had said, twisting a lock of Tom's hair about his finger with a conflicted look on his face. _I'm kind of on serious rebound._

Tom had shrugged, grinning, and rolled him on his back. _So am I. That's okay, right?_

And it had been, back then, even after Marc insisted on giving him the details; even after Tom himself had told him about Katja. But that had been then. Now, though… now things were changing, in scary and thrilling ways, and what had been okay for a couple of guys having casual fun on weekends was no longer enough. Not when he wanted Marc's private smile to be for him and not for Roman. Not when the knowledge of that history had nagged at him unsubtly for months, making him wonder how soon he'd be told that rebound was over, and so were they.

By the time his thoughts had once again cycled back to the things they'd flung at each other in the street, his anger had transformed into something no less heated but more focused. _Call me tomorrow_ , Marc had said, and then tossed in that final barb, as if it hadn't hurt enough that he was sending him back to his room like a misbehaving kid. _If you still want to._

Tom clenched his jaws and got up abruptly, sweeping a cushion off his bed so violently it sailed all the way over to the wall and knocked over his plant.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," he growled, then jumped when there was a loud knock on the door, as if in answer. "Go away," he said automatically.

"Tom, it's me," Isabelle's voice said. "Ben told me what happened. Can I come in?"

She took his silence for acquiescence and stuck her head in just as he yanked a jacket from his closet and grabbed Marc's bag off the floor. Isabelle took one glance at his face and nodded, jaw tightening.

"Do you need a ride? I've only had one glass of wine."

He loved her fiercely at times like this, when she understood without even asking. "What about Ben?"

She shrugged, crossing the room to grab her own purse and car keys from his desk. "Playing that idiot computer game with Vanessa. He can get a cab home." She snatched the keys with more force than necessary. "If I don't lock the door from the inside, that is."

"Isabelle?" Tom took a step towards her but she evaded his extended hand with a hard, bright smile.

"Never mind about me, big brother. Sort out your own love life."

She drove too fast, with the radio blaring too loud for conversation. It suited Tom fine. His thoughts were a jumble of regrets and accusations, and when they pulled up in front of the hotel, he still had no idea what to say.

"Call me tomorrow," his sister said, an eerie echo of Marc's words earlier. Tom nodded and leaned over to kiss her check.

"If you do lock Ben out, I want a transcript of all the begging and wailing."

Isabelle snorted, shoving him away. "I'll put a tape recorder on. Now bugger off. And Tom?"

Already out the door, he leaned back in. "Yes?"

His sister's blue eyes glittered fiercely. "When in doubt, think of the family motto. A Reichenbach-"

"-takes what he wants," he finished with her, unsure whether to laugh or frown his disapproval. It had always seemed an easy credo, uncomplicated in its ruthlessness, but Marc Hagendorf, he'd learned, lived in defiance of the easy things. "I'll try."

***

Marc had just finished his shower when the knock came on the door. He slung a towel round his hips, frowning at the clock on the bedside table. It was past midnight, a very odd time for housekeeping. The knocking was insistent, angry.

"Hold your horses," he muttered, tucking in the towel. "Yes…?"

Tom shouldered past him the second he opened the door, so forcefully Marc had to step back to avoid getting barrelled over.

"I had to threaten the night receptionist to give me your room number. She wasn't very happy. Don't be amazed if you get charged extra. I think she thought I was a rentboy or something; she made a point of telling me this was a respectable establishment."

He dumped Marc's bag in the middle of the room and strode on without stopping. Only when he'd reached the curtained window did he whirl around, crossing his arms and fixing Marc with a challenging stare. "Are you going to close that or would you rather I left right away?"

Marc realised that he was still holding the door open whilst dripping gently on the carpet. His mouth was open, too. He closed both, head reeling. "Tom."

"I brought your stuff." Tom pointed at the bag, unnecessarily. "I'm sure if that was a childish move, you'll let me know." His eyes were blazing blue, his posture rigid with challenge.

Marc was at an utter loss for what to say. He was all too aware that he was standing here in a white hotel towel and nothing else, and gaping unattractively to boot. "Uhm… thanks," he ventured.

"That was a shitty thing to say," Tom declared levelly. "About my age." His eyes never left Marc's face. It was the absence of accusation in his tone that dropped Marc's defences; that and the unhidden hurt in his eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled culpability with it.

"It was. I'm sorry." It was surprisingly easy to say.

Tom's gaze flickered for a moment. "What I said was shitty too. About Roman."

Marc didn't deny it but he did offer a wry smile. "For what it's worth, it's not the same room," he said, cautiously teasing, but Tom winced anyway.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Marc felt curiously lightened, even though he'd just spent a good twenty minutes under the scalding shower trying to melt a stone-cold block of anger, much of it directed at himself.

The concession seemed to make Tom's purpose falter. "Okay." He slowly uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the window sill, looking towards the door, then back at Marc.

"Do you want me to go?" The challenge was still hot in his voice but there was an uncertain note as well; a reminder that Tom didn't so much write the rules to this game as he just threw his assets into it on blind good faith alone. Marc had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat before he could speak.

"Don't you dare."

***

Tom couldn't help sagging a bit in relief. They had had fights before, but none that lasted overnight. He wasn't sure how well he'd have handled walking out.

Marc was still standing by the door, wet-haired and bemused. A trickle of water had run down the centre of his chest, disappearing in the thin line of hair below his navel. Tom wanted nothing so much as to chase its path down to the seam of the towel with his mouth, but pride and uncertainty kept him rooted by the window. He was all too aware that for months he'd been the one doing the chasing, from that dizzying moment in December when he'd first stepped in Marc's path backstage in Stuttgart and leaned in to kiss him, to tonight's ride next to his grim-faced sister. Isabelle didn't believe in scruples when it came to love. Tom wished he didn't either – it would make things so much simpler – but still he'd always had his own secret addendum to the family motto: _Take what you want, unless it really doesn't want you._

Marc didn't – couldn't – know about their family motto, but after three months Tom knew a little about the rules by which his lover operated, too. He shifted a little on his feet and raised his eyes back to Marc's face with frank invitation. Marc crossed the room in three long strides and crowded close, cupping Tom's chin and tilting it up. He smelled soapy and felt warm. His mouth curved just the smallest bit, and Tom couldn't help leaning towards it, pride be damned. He captured Marc's lower lip between his teeth and gave it a sharp nip, just to let him know that he wasn't just swooning into his arms. Then he forgot about that too, and dove in for a full kiss.

Marc responded only for a moment, though, before he pulled away, pinning Tom's shoulders when he would have followed.

"Tom," he murmured, "what you said about Roman and me…"

"It doesn't matter. Forget it." He dug his hands into Marc's arms and tugged him around, meaning to push him against the wall, but Marc was suddenly manoeuvring him backwards until the edge of the bed hit the back of Tom's knees. He sat down abruptly. Marc knelt before him in one quick, smooth motion, ducking his head a bit so he could look in Tom's face. He was shaking his head.

"No, I want to know. Where did that come from?" His brows were knitted in a frown, his hands resting on Tom's knees. Tom rather wished they could just get on with the making up, but he knew Marc when he got this intent expression; nothing would do now but to have it out. He shrugged and met Marc's concerned gaze straight on.

"Stands to reason, doesn't it?" he challenged. "It's not been that long since you two broke up."

Marc squeezed his knees lightly. "It was last summer, Tom. Long enough."

"Yeah, and it was ten years before that, and it didn't sound like you had much trouble reconnecting."

Marc stared at him, looking appalled now. "Tom. How long have you been worried about this?"

He sighed and looked down, fiddling with his woven leather bracelet. More than one thread was wearing thin. He might need to get a new one. Shame, really. He'd got it in Tibet, and never taken it off for the past three years.

"Tom?"

He sat up straight, annoyed with himself, with Marc for forcing the issue. "It's a normal thing to worry about! Weren't you worried about… I don't know, Katja? Girls?"

Marc's frown had deepened. "A bit, sure. But not like this. Why didn't you say anything? If it bothered you so much, why didn't you ask me?"

He'd have given anything just then to be like Isabelle, who had a scenario prepared to get out of any situation. If this was Isabelle, she would have either managed to laugh it off convincingly, or she'd have skewered Marc with words, leaving him begging for her favour.

He wasn't Isabelle, though. And he didn't want Marc skewered. That left the truth.

"Because I didn't know what I'd do if the answer was yes."

He was alarmed when Marc's forehead dropped slowly onto Tom's knees, as if some vital string had just been cut. For what felt like a very long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Marc said, face still down, "And now? If you asked me now and I answered, would you believe me?"

Tom took a deep breath. His fingers itched to touch Marc's hair, still damp and fanned out across his thigh, but something held him back; despite the physical closeness, the strange confessional position had something forbidding about it, and anxiety stiffened his back.

"Because if you don't," Marc continued gravely, "or if you carry things like this around for months without even telling me, we have a problem."

_Not as big a problem as if you're still not over your ex._ "I'll believe you if you tell me the truth," he replied.

He could feel Marc's warm breath through his trouser leg as he laughed softly. "No loopholes. Fair enough." He raised his head, meeting Tom's eyes again. His own were shadowed, and very serious. "Are you asking, then?"

Tom couldn't make himself say the words. All he managed was a curt nod.

"Alright." Marc took a deep breath, his forehead crinkling. "The first time Roman and I broke up, it took me a long time to get back on my feet. Years, maybe."

Tom nodded, remembering Katja. For weeks after the final break, he'd woken up thinking he'd heard her raucous laugh, felt the silk of her hair spread out across his chest.

"The break-up last summer wasn't a whole lot easier," Marc continued, in a grim, clipped voice, "but I had the show to focus on – that helped a lot. And at least this time I knew that I'd given it my all." He pressed his lips together briefly. "I spent a long time wondering about that, the first time."

He had put one hand over Tom's and was gently tracing the leather bracelet with one finger. Tom was trying to read his face, or his voice. He failed at both. "If you'd asked me about Roman back when we first met," Marc said slowly, "I honestly don't know what I could have told you. But that was then, Tom. I'm not in love with Roman now."

Tom hadn't realised he'd held his breath until it eased out of his chest in a long, shaky breath. Marc tightened his grip on his hands, looking up at him with a conflicted expression on his face. "That's over. But it's also not the sort of thing to pass you by and leave no trace. It was a rough time, and…" He grimaced and shrugged. "Well, there's baggage left."

Tom considered this. "Baggage I can live with. You know that. I'd just rather it was our baggage, not yours and Roman's."

A small, regretful smile curled the corners of Marc's mouth. "Oh, it is. All yours, in all its banged-up glory."

Tom searched his face, unable to help himself looking for subterfuge. He found none. "So Roman and you…"

"I don't know," Marc answered the unfinished question. "I don't know if we can ever really be something as casual as friends, and I don't think I'll ever not care how he's doing. But that's all."

Tom swallowed. "When you were talking… at the party. You seemed very-"

"Oh, Tom." To his consternation, Marc burst out laughing.

"What?!"

"About you, you idiot. We were talking about you. More specifically, I was fretting about age gaps and such, and Roman told me I was being a twat."

"Oh." It took a long time to sink in. "Really?"

"Really." Marc smirked and wrapped a hand around Tom's nape, tugging his head down until they were forehead to forehead. He smelled of toothpaste and aftershave. "Okay?" he murmured, and Tom finally nodded, tilted his head and met his lips. Relief suffused him, flowing through his limbs like warm water. Marc pulled back a little, opening his mouth to say something else, but Tom followed stubbornly, prolonging the kiss. He'd had enough of talking. He leaned back on the bed, dragging Marc with him. Marc made a surprised sound that turned into a whoosh of air when Tom rolled them, clumsily, to land on top. It was a rather inelegant sprawl, and Marc laughed at him, catching at his elbows.

"How many bones did you break on a regular basis when you were a kid?"

Tom laughed as well but grabbed Marc's wandering hands to pin his wrists neatly by his head. "Shut up," he growled, nipping at Marc's lower lip. "We can't all be figure skaters." He kissed him thoroughly, then transferred his grip on Marc's wrists to one hand so he could tug the towel loose. Marc made a pleased noise into his mouth that turned into a hiss when Tom closed his fingers around his cock.

He sat back on his haunches, straddling Marc's thighs, and grinned down at him, moving his hand slowly. Released from Tom's grip on his wrists, Marc stretched slowly and deliberately like a large cat, an impression enhanced by his smug smirk. Tom drank in the sight of him, enjoying the view. Marc might not have a skater's physique anymore, but there was plenty to admire still.

In the early days, Tom had briefly wondered whether he should analyse this relationship. Whether there should be some crisis of self-examination. He had asked himself why, after years of happily being attracted to girls, he couldn't get enough of this man's body, the many nuances of his expressions. Why everything, including Katja's freckled smile, had faded so quickly compared to the way Marc's moods made his eyes shift colour, the way his muscles bunched under smooth skin, the way his grin had the power to turn Tom's limbs to jelly.

He had decided quickly enough that self-reinvention wasn't necessary. He was who he was, and for once the Reichenbach motto, so inherently selfish on the surface, had served him well: He'd grown up learning to reach for what he wanted and not bother too much with the reasons why he shouldn't want it. He wanted Marc; had wanted him from the first moment on. It was as simple as that. Sexuality entered into it, of course, but as soon as he'd realised that he wanted to touch Marc, to be touched by him, he hadn't wasted much thought on labels. He supposed that was lazy, perhaps even a cop-out; certainly not a shining beacon of political integrity. He didn't really care. The desire was his, and he felt fiercely protective of it. He felt no need for declarations.

He was taking what he wanted now, tightening and loosening his grip around Marc's cock, sliding his fingers up and down, enjoying the heated weight in his hand and especially enjoying Marc's reactions – the flush of his skin, the catch of his breath, the blatant lust clouding his gaze. He'd been ridiculously clumsy at this at first (no matter the theory, it did make a difference whether you were doing it to yourself or someone else) but he had gotten better.

Marc made the humming noise he liked to make, deep in his throat, and arched his hips. Tom grinned, tightening his grip. A lot better, even.

"This is distinctly unfair," Marc complained with a slight hitch in his voice, and tugged at Tom's shirt. "How come I'm the only one naked?"

It was a fair point. Tom impatiently tore at the buttons with one hand, interfering with Marc's hands trying to help. It took much too long and he hated interrupting what he was doing. With a muttered curse, he let go of Marc and scrambled off the bed for long enough to get out of his socks and shoes. His jeans and underpants sailed across the room in an inside-out tangle. Marc had raised himself up on his elbows to watch with an amused glow on his face. He was sprawling unselfconsciously on the queen-sized bed, his still-damp hair hanging into his forehead, so different from his usual careful gel job. Tom loved his hair mussed up, but mostly he loved the fact that no one got to see it like that but him. He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, just looking. Marc was staring at him in turn, running his eyes up and down Tom's body in frank appreciation. Tom flushed when Marc's gaze lingered, smiling, on his erection; but then he took the grin for a challenge and dropped his hand down to his cock, stroking himself leisurely. Marc's eyes darkened visibly, green-grey-and-blue and all desire.

"Come back here," he said huskily.

Tom didn't need an invitation. He clambered back atop his lover's sprawled legs with his usual lack of grace, not caring whether he looked silly. Marc didn't seem to care either. His skin was hot against Tom's own, and his hands and mouth were everywhere. He'd sat up, wrapping Tom in his arms, dragging him close, fingers digging into his skin. Tom tried to regain control for a few moments, shoving at Marc's shoulders to get him to lie back down, but Marc wasn't having it. He dragged his mouth along Tom's jaw line, nibbling as he went, then trailed kisses and small bites down the side of his neck, making him shiver. His hands explored Tom's torso, palms hot against his skin. They brushed his nipples and skimmed teasingly along his sensitive sides before they finally settled on his hips and tugged him firmly forward.

Tom moaned when he felt his erection bob against Marc's, then gave up on the notion of control and simply thrust his hips again, seeking the pleasure of contact. Marc made that humming noise again; it buzzed against Tom's skin and travelled straight into his blood stream, pooling thickly in his groin. From the first time he'd heard it, that sound had driven Tom crazy, and now was no different. He rocked his hips sharply against Marc's and reached down to close his hand on both their cocks, palming them together. The sensation was explosive – soft, hot skin, thick flesh joined in his hand, alive with need. Marc's hands were digging into his buttocks, encouraging his movements; his own hips were jerking up rhythmically, rocking into Tom's grip. Tom growled, wrapped his free arm around Marc's shoulders for support, and jerked them off without much thought for coordination, riding up and down in Marc's lap, pressing as close as he could. Marc reared up to kiss him, sloppy and hard, and Tom let him have control because he didn't care to have it; because this was perfect and hot the way it was, the way being with Marc always was: outside of rules and roles alike. He snapped his hips hard, rolled his arse into Marc's kneading hands and came in a sudden hot gush when he felt Marc's teeth sink into his neck. His grip grew boneless and slick with come. He thought he might have made some loud and wanton noise that would almost certainly have penetrated walls. He didn't care. Marc was kissing him roughly still, all teeth and tongue, releasing an urgent, keening moan against his lips. He'd gripped Tom's wrist, urging him on. Tom kissed him back while his hand squeezed and tugged, exerting slippery pressure, fingers darting down to cup the balls as well, swollen and hot to the touch. He felt Marc's body tense a second before he shuddered and arched too, spurting warm come over Tom's hand and belly. Tom let himself go limp, let Marc's body absorb his weight as they keeled sideways onto the bed.

He came to with his head tucked into the crook of Marc's neck, their limbs in a sticky tangle, and chortled breathlessly.

"The receptionist will _definitely_ think I'm a rentboy now."

Marc chuckled, stroking damp hair back from his temple to kiss him there, soft and close to the corner of his eye. "Let her."

***

Tom was both the most restless and most affectionate sleeper Marc had ever known. At first, it had been a conundrum to Marc, who was used to sleeping as he pleased, with no thought for accommodating joined occupants. Not that Tom needed much accommodating; he'd fall asleep within a heartbeat and flop all over Marc no matter where or when. To him it seemed to make no difference whether Marc was lying on his back or front, curled up sideways or with his back to Tom. He'd go to sleep alone and find himself with Tom draped over his chest, moulded against his back or wriggled underneath with one arm wrapped around him. Early on, he'd spent a few uncomfortable nights that way, unused to the close proximity. Then he'd got first used to it, then fond of it: both alarmingly fast.

Right now, Tom was on his side, spooned close into the curve of Marc's body. He was fast asleep, breathing deep and even. Marc was slowly stroking his hip, enjoying the warmth Tom's body always seemed to radiate. Cold beds were a thing of the past these days. Tom had a knack for making even the most impersonal of hotel rooms feel a little more like… well, stupid as it sounded, home.

He envied Tom his ability to fall asleep anywhere and any time. Despite his body's pleasant inertia, his own mind was vexingly awake, chasing after the highlights of the evening, if you could call them that. He grimaced as he recalled the party's humiliations, but then forced himself to stop and think more clearly. Yes, Ingo and Marian had been idiots, and Annette… well, he supposed he couldn't blame her. At least her motives were nothing more petty than wanting to protect her friends. But there had been others. Lena had been friendly. Isabelle had been pleased to see him. Keule and Frau Scholz had been happy to chat with him, as had Vanessa. Hell, even Deniz had talked to him civilly.

He leaned forward, pushing his nose into Tom's tangled curls. "Tom?"

"Mhmgrmblurgh."

He smiled and wrapped his arm around the younger man's chest, enjoying the sensation of firm muscles, covered with the faintest dusting of soft fuzz. "I was just thinking. I'm kind of sick of hotel rooms, aren't you?"

Tom made another grumbling noise that could mean anything and nothing. Marc hesitated. "The thing is… the show's going on tour soon. I told you about that, right?"

Tom grunted and snuggled closer against him, wriggling his butt against Marc's groin in a most distracting manner. "So? You don't have to go, do you?"

He was asleep again before Marc could phrase a response, but he lay awake for a long time, his body kept alert by the temptations of Tom's sleeping body and his mind kept sleepless by these facts Tom kept tossing out with such supreme nonchalance. No, he didn't have to go, but then what did staying have to offer, other than awkward commutes to a place where the vast majority of the resident population despised him actively?

With a sigh, Tom flopped over and nuzzled into his neck, rudely shoving a knee between his thighs. His hair tickled Marc's neck, and yet he couldn't comfortably move to scratch himself without disturbing Tom. He lay still, heroically ignoring the tickle until it went away, only to be replaced by the distinct warm trickle of drool against his collarbone. He sighed. Here in the dark, between the starched sheets of a room he'd never have to see again, he supposed it was alright to admit to himself that he was in deeper than he'd thought.

***

Eight in the morning was an extremely vulnerable time for Ingo Zadek at the best of times; when impaired by hangovers, it was infinitely worse. Tom took full advantage, striding into the flatshare at quarter past with a bag of rolls and a carefully honed grudge.

Ingo was at the table, clutching a glass of orange juice. Opposite him, Lena was sipping coffee and nibbling on a croissant. The flat had not been cleared of the party rubble yet, unless one wanted to count Alexander happily zooming through the living room on his tricycle and scooping up empty plastic cups.

Lena smiled at Tom when he came in. "Morning. Oh, you got rolls! Swap you one for some coffee?"

"Sure." He dumped the rolls in the middle of the table and gratefully accepted the mug Lena offered. From across the table, Ingo was eyeing him sourly.

"Had a good night with-"

"One wrong word, Ingo," Tom warned, in his chilliest tone. Ingo made a face of aggravated innocence.

"Marc, I was going to say Marc! Sheesh. Well, did you?"

"No thanks to you, but yeah, I did." He pulled back a chair, deliberately let it scrape against the floor. Ingo winced at the noise. Lena looked between them with a quizzically raised brow.

"Should I leave you guys to it?" she asked, sounding extremely interested. "Or hold the punching bag?"

Tom shook his head. "No, stay. Where's Annette?"

"At work, abandoning me to bear my hangover alone," Ingo grumbled, taking small sips of orange juice. "And my lecture, apparently."

"Oh boo hoo, let's have a pity party. Fine, I'll talk to her later. Ingo…"

"Yeah, yeah, I snogged you and Mr. Goose Grease didn't approve," Ingo said sulkily. "So sue me. I snog Ben all the time and nobody minds. His wife certainly doesn't. I mean, I'd snog _her_ but chances are I'd get bitchslapped so hard that any chance of future little Zadeks-"

"Ingo."

"Yes?"

"It's not the snogging. It's _Mr. Goose Grease_ and _your fancy fuckbuddy_ and _Marc the shark_ and _Marc the homewrecker_ or any of those little gems you seem to be churning out 24/7. I don't want to hear any of them, ever again. I don't give a damn what you think you owe anyone. If you absolutely insist on thinking in tit-for-tat terms, Deniz was the only real injured party in what happened last year. And if _he_ can be civil to Marc, so can you."

Ingo's face had crinkled into deep lines of displeasure, but Tom continued evenly. "No more funny nicknames, Ingo. No more crappy gay quips. No more _pimp daddy_ and no more _Marc the man-eater_. I don't want to hear it."

"What about _greasy squirrel_?" Ingo ventured. Tom gave him A Look. Ingo raised his hands. "Okay, okay, fine. I know I made things awkward for you, Tom, but I'm sorry… I just don't like the guy."

"Here's a novel concept: I don't care." He leaned forward across the table. "He's my boyfriend. You're my friend. Don't make me choose, Ingo. You wouldn't like the outcome."

Ingo stared at him with bloodshot eyes for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. "I'll try, okay? Just don't expect us to be bosom buddies or anything."

"I don't. Just don't be an ass, that'll do for starters."

"Awww," said Lena from the stove. "All the male bonding in here is making me weak in the knees. Scrambled eggs, anyone?"

"Copy!" Alexander shouted, stopping his tricycle by her knee. She reached down to pat his head.

"In a few years you can have coffee, Schatz. No need to cultivate addiction early. Tom? Ingo?" She raised the pan of scrambled eggs invitingly, and Ingo promptly blanched when the smell hit his nose.

"I'll, uh, be right…" He dashed for the bathroom. Alexander, thinking it was a game, whizzed after him in hot pursuit, crowing with delight.

Tom leaned back and took a deep breath, followed by a swig of coffee. Lena sat down opposite him, heaping her plate high with scrambled eggs. "Tom, listen…"

"I know," he interrupted impatiently. "Ingo doesn't mean it. Annette's just worried. Marian is in mourning, and usually drunk, and screwed up in seventeen different ways. I know, Lena, but that still doesn't give them the right to meddle with my love life, okay? I'm a grown-up. I can date whoever the hell I want. And if Ingo doesn't like it-"

"Whoa there, horsie." Lena waved the spatula at him, amused. "Not what I was going to say. Actually I was just going to ask how things were going. With you and Marc."

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "Uhm, fine? I mean, issues. But fine. Mostly. I think?"

Lena snorted. "Okay. Remind me not to have you read my fortune." She was studying him closely, though, with a shrewd nuance to her neutral expression. "So you're not just fooling around, then? Is this for real?"

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. Bluntness was an inherent Bergmann sisters trait, but what came across as naïve in Katja and meddlesome in Annette was disconcertingly intuitive in Lena. "Maybe."

She said nothing, but her big blue eyes didn't veer from his face. "I think so," he felt compelled to add. "But it's complicated. He's always on the road, and bringing him here is… well, you saw what happened." He shrugged again, this time in frustration. "I live here, Lena. This is my life. Ben and I may be making a real breakthrough with this game. I won't always be able to slip away for weekends to have my relationship, and I don't really want to date like that. I want him to be a part of my normal life. Even the bits that have annoying friends in it," he added glumly.

Lena grinned, which made her look disconcertingly like a pixie. "I think," she said solemnly, "I may be able to help."

***

Marc did book the room for another night, just to be on the safe side. He did it with a certain measure of regret; he'd liked Tom's room, and liked even more the prospect of sharing Tom's own bed. But after last night, he figured it was safer to keep the neutral ground, at least for now. He hadn't brought enough clean pants for all of Tom's friends with a grudge.

Tom had a meeting with Ben and a potential sponsor at 10 a.m. "I'll just grab my stuff from the flat," he'd said, after they'd shared a shower. "Meet me at the Centre? And cross your fingers?"

Marc was doing just that, sitting in the lobby with a coffee and the Ruhr Report, when a hesitant voice said, "Marc?"

He looked up to find Roman standing on the other side of his table, clutching his own Styrofoam coffee cup.

"Roman. Hi." He sat up straight, wondering for a moment whether he was supposed to invite him to sit or not. Tom's confessions last night had rattled him rather badly in that respect. But that was stupid, surely; this was the Centre, a perfectly public place. He smiled, waving his newspaper at the seat facing him. "Do you want to sit down?"

Roman shook his head, his eyes flickering towards the stairs to the locker rooms. "I have training with Isabelle in a minute. She's got this incredibly ambitious routine for Worlds. I'm trying to convince her to simplify some of the elements, but the girl's nothing if not stubborn."

Marc couldn't help a grin. "Runs in the family, apparently."

Roman was studying him with his head slightly tilted. "Right. I just wanted to check – are you and Tom… I mean, about last night. Are you alright?"

"We're fine."

It felt odd not to confide in Roman as a matter of course. Last summer, it had been them against the world, and if the secret that bound them was a guilty one, its ties had been the stronger for it. There was a part of him that still wanted to tell Roman everything, because he was the one person who would understand. It was a hard instinct to get rid of, even now.

He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Roman seemed to understand. After a hesitant pause, he smiled at Marc, looking relieved, and nodded. "Okay, well… just making sure. When are you going back to Stuttgart?"

"Sunday." It was amazing how much he wasn't looking forward to that other hotel with the suite that kept malfunctioning on him. It was bearable when Tom was there; by himself, it was all he could do to stay at the theatre for as long as he could, even when there wasn't much to do.

"Right. Give me a ring before you leave?" Marc watched the tilt of Roman's mouth, the honest interest in those familiar blue eyes, and weighed the sum of what he saw against what he'd told Tom the night before. He was relieved to find it true: He'd never be indifferent to this face, but it didn’t inspire that desperate tug in his heart anymore. For a stupid, senseless second, it made him sad. Then he smiled.

"I will. Now go torture your skater. I know you'll enjoy it."

Roman grinned, raised his coffee cup in mock salute, and left. Looking after him, Marc spotted Lena Bergmann coming the other way and quickly ducked behind his paper. It was too early in the day for confrontations.

Of course, she had already spotted him, curse his luck. "Marc! Hi." She flopped down in the chair opposite him without a by your leave, smiling brightly. She was in work-out clothes, track pants and a snug tank top that hugged all her curves just the right way. Marc wondered idly how many clients the Centre attracted just by virtue of having her for a personal trainer.

"Lena. Good morning." He rather hoped he wasn't in for an extended lecture. She had seemed alright last night but you never knew with these people.

She was leaning back in her chair, drinking from a brightly patterned water bottled, and fixed him with a shrewd gaze that made him rather nervous. "Is Tom at his meeting?"

Marc nodded cautiously.

"Right. I meant to ask you for a favour. Or suggest something to you. Whichever." She leaned forward, crossing her arms on her knees. "I suppose you didn't know Claudia Bergmann is leaving?"

It took him a long moment to recognise the name; when he did, he frowned. "Katja's mother?" _The scheming blackmailing witch?_ he nearly added.

Lena nodded. "She's had an offer from Halle, so she's going to work with Katja there. The Steinkamps have known for a while. Richard went back to Russia – he's following a new trace about Jenny, but he's also planning on scheduling a meeting with Mr. Resopolov. They're hoping to finally get him to come here and take Mrs. Bergmann's place."

Marc nodded. "Resopolov's a genius. I hope they get him."

Lena was looking at him with frank calculation. He frowned. "What?"

She took another sip from her bottle. "I had a brief chat with Mrs. Steinkamp this morning. Resopolov has a prior engagement to fulfil before he can even think of coming here – private lessons with one of his Russian star pupils. Simone Steinkamp thinks it's going to be at least five weeks before they can get him here. And Claudia Bergmann is leaving next Friday. That leaves the skating team without a choreographer – during training for Worlds." Lena hooked one arm with the other and turned her torso against the pull in a casual stretch. "Isabelle's routine will need refining, and Simone is considering signing on a new skater on short notice who will need a full new routine. Roman has a knack for choreography and he's doing what he can, but it's not the same as having an actual choreographer."

Marc frowned at her in feigned ignorance although his pulse has sped up slightly; he could tell where this was going. "What are you saying?"

Lena shrugged. "I'm saying we'll need a choreographer for a few weeks at least. I'm saying Mrs. Steinkamp was more than pleased when I told her we might have a candidate." She leaned forward suddenly, turning the full force of those impressive blue eyes on him. She'd struck him as impish and playfully sexy before; now he realised that there was steel in there as well. "I'm saying Tom is my friend and he deserves better than being someone's weekend bed warmer. He thinks you're the real deal. Are you?"

_Just what I need_ , Marc thought, _another meddling Bergmann_. But there was something different about her offer – something sincere and engaging. A challenge it might be, but one without hostility.

Essen, for weeks. He considered it. Essen, with a small group of people who devotedly detested him, and another group who might prove to be allies. Essen, notorious centre of skating scandals and professional disaster. Essen, where choreography sessions would require him to work closely with Roman.

Essen, where he'd get to have Tom every day, every night.

He raised his eyes to meet Lena's, and gave her a wry smile. "Let's find out."


End file.
